


Total Institution

by thelittlestpurplecat



Series: Institutions of Love and Incarceration [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Prison, Angst, Bathing, Bittersweet Ending, Brief References To Prison Rape, Canon Universe But Without Captain America, Complete, Cuddling & Snuggling, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Guard Brutality, Guard Steve, Hallucinations, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Inmate Bucky, Isolation, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Neck Kissing, Non-Graphic Reference to Past Rape/Non-Con, Obsessive Behavior, One-Sided Relationship, Overstimulation, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Pining, Power Imbalance, Prisoner Bucky, Reunions, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Solitary Confinement, Suicidal Thoughts, Threat of Rape, Torture, Touch-Starved, Trials, Unhealthily Developing Feelings, Unrequited Love, court of law, depressive tendencies, hand holding, mild dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 94,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlestpurplecat/pseuds/thelittlestpurplecat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier has been sentenced to life without parol. His entire world had been condensed to a hot, cramped cell that he hasn't seen the outside of in the four years since his apprehension. It's hell. He has no means of escape, no means of terminating his suffering, and no means of distraction...that is, until he's assigned a new guard.<br/>Steve Rogers is assigned the Winter Soldier as his singular charge. He expects a sadistic, violent murderer. What he finds instead is a broken, tormented man with no memory of his past life, and no control over what had been done to him. He's a victim. Not a monster. And Steve won't stand to see him pay for crimes over which he had no control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Assignment

**Author's Note:**

> Before starting this fic I watched several documentaries to give myself a base knowledge, but I’m by no means an expert on the prison system. If there are mistakes, please be patient with me.  
> There will be some elements of officer brutality, and probably a few references to prison rape, but it will either be hypothetical, or non-explicit past reference. It will not be a plot point at any time during the story. The warnings for these references will be tagged, and in the upper notes of the chapter in which they occur.
> 
> Sources: Torture in American Prisons: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IWxpQ87C4t4&index=2&list=WL  
> Preditor and Pray -life in Prison - Prison Documentary: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZlkoVTZcEM

_ White _

Three white walls. One white door. _All_ of them too close.

_White._

One fluorescent light behind a sturdy metal cage. Too bright. _Needlessly_ bright. It hurts his eyes, and makes the keening chattering in his head louder. The heat is unbearable.

He's been in solitary confinement for 1512 day. In all- four years, one month, and twenty one days. He knows. He counted. 1512 days since he last stepped foot outside this tiny rectangle, since he's seen real light, or breathed unfiltered air. He wouldn't have known were it not for the scratches in the wall, the ones he scraped there with the rough tip of one metal finger. On line for every time his hypersensitive ears caught the guard yelling for lights out. Otherwise, he could have never told. The chattering in his head tried to trick him; tried to tell him the days had been hours, or the moments, decades. There were mistakes in his count because of the voices, and they only got clearer. With every sporadic flicker of the harsh, white light, the whispering got a little louder, a little closer to real speech. It whispered things in his head. And the light made it stronger.

The light never turned off in his unforgiving, white prison.

It was _hell._

If he had any means, he would have killed himself long ago. He’d given up after a year, but the desire persisted. He was stripped of autonomy and purpose. And after all, what use was a weapon locked away in a box?

-.-.-.-.-.-

_"He has to have a name, sir..."_

Steve Rogers stared doubtfully down at the file in his hands. He was being reassigned to a deeper branch of the nation's highest security prison, to guard a prisoner that had only existed to him in rumor. The file told him his charge was an agent of Hydra, who had been captured by S.H.I.E.L.D and charged with a dozen or more political assassinations, and countless other civilian murders. The rumors that filtered through the prisoners and the guards told him that he was like a machine and that he killed unquestioningly; that he never left a target alive. It was said he tore a guard's throat out with his teeth, but Steve didn’t believe it, mostly because he hadn't seen the outside of his cell in over four years. 24 hours a day, year round. Never once stepping foot over the threshold of his confinement cell. But still, this man was violent. He was a ruthless, highly skilled killer with seemingly no emotional reaction at all to those whose lives he’d crushed out. Because of his history, and S.H.I.E.L.D's interest in him he was assigned a personal guard. Steve supposed that would be him now...

His superior gave a low snort. "You _see_ anything in that file about a name, officer?" He asked, as though pointing out something that should have been bleedingly obvious. "No one has ever heard this guy referenced as anything but 'The Winter Soldier.' During his trial, he gave no name, and no records could be found of him at all, so as far as we're concerned, he's either John Doe, or 088074. _Are we clear?"_

Steve shifted restlessly in his seat. He didn't like it. Total institution was necessary to maintain a fragile balance in the prison system, but _everyone_ deserves the dignity of a name. But his superior was technically correct. As far as anyone knew, he had no legal name, and the soldier- the prisoner, had refused to divulge it. But Steve could never call a human being by a string of numbers.

"Yes sir." Steve responded evenly. "We're clear."

The top-brass officer nodded, leveling the stack of papers in his hands with two short thumps against the surface of the desk. "Good. If you have no further... _reluctances_ about your task, then I suppose you should see to it." _An order._ Not the suggestion it was framed to be.

This time, it was Steve who nodded, and straightened the file he'd been given as he stood the leave the room. "Yes sir. Right away." He was going to assume guard of inmate 088074. The Winter Soldier.

-.-.-.-.-.-

_New guard._

The Soldier knew. He could tell by the footsteps. The stride was short and quick, but it was too heavy a footfall to belong to a short strided man. It was uncertainty, not leg length, that caused the nuance. His new guard was tall, probably muscular, as there was no swaying trundle to suggest a heavier man. He had never been to the area closed off around the Soldier’s cell, by the slight scuff of frequent half-turns. The long, familiar, practiced stride of his former guard moved to the newcomer and the footfalls stopped, replaced by the muffled cadence of low voices. This had happened before. A change of guards. It seldom affected him.

Mostly, his guards acted as if there was nothing behind the door, just an endless loop of food tray in one slot full, and out the same slot empty. Twice a day. No further interaction needed. A few had been more malicious, but he was closed up behind an impermeable door that protected him from them, as much as it protected _them_ from _him._ A new guard meant nothing. Food tray in. Food tray out.

The chattering in his mind tried to block out the wordless murmur of their voices. It got louder- the chattering- as the light above him pulsed brighter. It sounded like a thousand people whispering to him at once. Recently, he started hearing individual words in the midst of the hissing, breathy whispering.

_Faulty_

_Murderer_

_Monster_

He didn't care to ignore them. They were true, and the voices broke the monotony of white- white- white and silence. But the guard's voices were getting louder now, and the chattering grew staticy around the edges of the tone. A goodbye was being said. Short. Professional. Suddenly-

_"Hello?"_

The soldier jerk in alarm. The word hadn't come from the malicious, chattering voices in his head. The word was clear, human, and unmistakably directed at him. The white-hot slash of a human voice across his eardrums wrenched a flinch from the Soldier, and his eyes flashed to the graph of scratched on the wall. One line was crooked, four months and seven days ago. _The last time he'd been spoken to._

Another line was burned into his memory. Seven months and eighteen days ago. The last time _he'd_ spoken.

Suddenly the low, narrow food-tray door slid open and the Soldier’s body coiled with tension.

_Not right._

_Not feeding time._

He eased away from the opening, waiting for something to push through. Waiting for the tear gas, the flash bomb; for the punishment he’d done nothing to deserve. _Was the new guard so eager to terrorize him?_ He backed up until he felt sticky, hot cement against his back, his hand poised over his thin, scratchy blanket, ready to hide his vulnerable mouth and eyes from the gas.

But nothing came through the tiny door. No food. No threat. Just a voice.

"Steve Rogers. I'm on your detail." The introduction was short and clear, but it was different than the Soldier was used to hearing. He'd had guards speak to him before, a long time ago, before he'd become old news. They had fallen into two groups. They were aggressive, and needlessly violent, or too optimistic, their hearts still beating warm with the hope that these prisoners could reform; have a life. Unfortunately, those kind never lasted long. They were crushed out by guards and prisoners alike, leaving only the brutal and cruel. This guard, sounded like neither.

His voice wasn't harsh, and threatening, but he didn't speak as though he saw this system for anything less than what it was. He sounded confident in himself, so confident, he had no need to prove it to a single living soul, not even the Soldier. He sounded firm, but not unkind. The Soldier knew it wouldn't last though. Kindness didn't survive here. Either the guard would go, or his kindness would. Either way he was left with a guard who would harm him.

Outside the door, Steve pinched his lips together. Had the departing guard not assured him, he wouldn't have even known the cell was occupied. He could hear no voice, no movement, and no breathing. The prisoner was extraordinarily still.

Just _the prisoner._ No name. Steve pinched his lips into a tight line, his stomach shifting with unease. He still didn't like that. If he was going to be guarding this man for the foreseeable future he wanted to have something honest- something _real_ to call him. People weren’t numbers. They had lives, and backgrounds, and feelings, and families, and a part of him still clung to the stubborn ideology that they could someday come back to that. A part of him still clung to the hope that he could help them get there. He wanted to be a figure of authority, be he also wanted to be a figure of respect.

Steve wanted nothing to do with the respect the other guards bragged of. Their version of respect was prisoners flinching and hunching way from them as they screamed abuse, as they shoved and punched and spat. He’d seen guards straddling prisoners and beating them until they begged, and pleaded for relief. He’d see them kick the curled form in the gut, threatening them if they ever disobey authority again. That wasn't respect. That was _fear,_ and Steve wanted no part of it.

He wanted a different idea of respect from his charge. He wanted him to listen to his instruction, and heed his authority, but he also wanted there to be some level of trust. It was probably unattainable, but he could at least try. He'd seen other guards try too. He’d seen them reach out, get friendly with prisoners, and the prisoners seemed to reciprocate  until one day- _snap-_ the trapped closed, and the people you were supposed to be controlling, controlled _you._ Steve couldn't let that happen. But he wouldn't terrorize a man who hadn't been allowed to leave an 8x10 cell in over four years.

Steve shifted outside the door, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "You have a name?" Every word was a balancing act: too much force, to little. Vicious, or friendly enough to be taken advantage of.

Inside, the soldier felt his empty stomach give a twist. No name. He had no name. He was a weapon, and he deserved to be treated as such. His handlers would call him whatever they wished. He eased silently away from the slot, the whispering in his head stirring once more. Individual words were surfacing, but they had changed.

_Fresh meat_

_Target_

_Mission_

_KILL HIM_

The hiss was so loud in his head the soldier physically flinched, right hand clapping over his ear as adrenaline dumped into his vines. The chatter was always about him. He'd learned to ignore it. It had never referenced someone else before. It had never told him what to do. His eyes snapped wide, breath catching. The voices sounded like his handlers. _Kill. Kill. Kill._

Steve heard the sudden, off kilter shuffle of feet: the hollow pop of a cupped hand smacking over and ear. It was the first sign of life from behind the door, and he eased a little closer, wanting to be certain his voice would carry clearly through the slot. "Tell me your name." He instructed again, firm, yet not unkind. "Otherwise you'll have to make do with John, because I won't call you by a number."

 _John._ The voices go quiet as the Soldier lets the name tumble around his head. That was... _right?_ _No._ Not right. _Close._ Something deeply buried remembered a name that belonged to someone he may have been, maybe in another life. A different name. Also older, also beginning with J...James... _James_ maybe. The fear rose back up in his throat. _He couldn't know that._ No one could. He wasn’t allowed to remember, and when he did, they hurt him. _No one could know._ He wasn’t James. He was the Soldier. The Asset. He was-

_"Fine."_

Steve blinked, shocked as the softness of the voice behind the door. It was deep; raw, and weak from disuse. The single word barely met his ears, but it was so soft...not the voice of a man who’d killed dozens of innocent people.

But it _was._ Steve had to remind himself of that.

“Alright. John it is.” He said, even though it still felt uncomfortable rolling off his tongue. It wasn’t right. But it was better than a number. And as he stood outside the door, cautious curiosity tugged at the pit of Steve’s stomach. He’d heard his voice now, if only for a single syllable, but he still didn’t have a good idea of what he looked like. His singular charge. The man under his protection. The man from whom he protected everyone else.

Moving slowly, Steve crouched down to the level of the open food slot. He could see just a sliver of the inside of the cramped cell. He could smell the staleness of the air, the sour scent of heat, and sweat. _God-_ was that room an _oven?_ Steve nearly had to squint against the burning fluorescent light. He took an uncertain breath, picking his words with care. Always with care. “I’m going to be watching you for a while-” He said evenly, constantly treading the careful line between kind, and unprofessional. “-and I’d prefer we handle introductions like normal human beings.”

Inside the cell, the prisoner- _John?- James?_ \- caught the flicker of movement by the slot. His guard wanted to see him. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. On one hand, he avoided contact with his guards if he could. On the other, he’d been given direct instruction, and when he ignored them, things grew more unpleasant than they already were. There had been a time when the soldier thought there was nothing more they could do to him. As it turned out, he’d been bitterly incorrect.

At one time, he hadn’t thought increasing the temperature, or the brightness in his cell would affect him, but after so long in this isolated, closed ecosystem, any change wreaked havoc on his body. The heat made it impossible to move from his bunk, where he lay, drowning in his own sweat- gasping- _choking._ The light made his skin crawl- made the voices louder, and stronger. Once, they place some electronic on the outside of this door that keened; high, and constant, for weeks until he had been undone, and lay on the floor of his cells blocking his ears and screaming to drown it out.

It was the little things that broke him now. They could punish him with tear gas, and physical violence- sexual if they so chose, and he wouldn’t flinch. His handlers had done worse. But if he disobeyed, and they turned up the lights, or the heat, or brought the horrible keening back...the Soldier shuddered. Those were the tortures he couldn’t take. So he obeyed, and carefully moved down to the slot.

_Blue._

In the Soldier’s colorless, white-washed world, Steve’s eyes were a shocking splash of cold, clear _blue._ He pulled back for a second, the color harsh on his abused eyes.

Behind the thick door that sealed the Soldier off from the rest of the world, Steve caught his first true glimpse of his charge. He was pulled back away from the door, so Steve could see most of his face, and the prison guard felt his breath hitch. Whatever picture he’d constructed in his head from the file, and from the grainy security footage...it was nothing like the man in front of him. His dark brown hair was overlong, and unkempt, never truly clean, since his shower options were limited to what he could do with the sink in his own cell. His strong, even jaw was covered in rough, scraggly stubble, and his features were sharp, and chiseled. But it was his eyes that caught Steve’s attention. They were lined, and sunken; shatter from years of isolation and abuse. They looked _broken-_ But they were the most beautiful blue Steve had ever seen. They weren’t cornflower blue like his own. They were more gray, like polished steel, and Steve felt a sudden thrill of doubt deep in his chest. _Was this really a mass murderer?_

He blinked, easing back just a hair, before his eyes flickered to either side. The area was sealed off, so in a moment of privacy, Steve offered his new charge a small smile. “Good to meet you, John.” He saw the man’s sunken eyes flicker. _Wrong words._ His charge had agreed to the name in a singular, murmured word, but it was clear it didn’t settle with him. Steve was glad the feeling was mutual. He didn’t looked like a John. Licking his lips, Steve tried again.”If you want, we don’t have to stick with John.” He offered, bracing his hands on his slightly buckled knees, his back beginning to ache a little from bending over to look through the slot. “I can always call you something else.”

The Soldier considered the offer. By rights, he shouldn’t have a name at all. Hydra had stripped him of that over and over again. He had shattered glimpses of remembrance, only to have it scoured away with pain; that was how Hydra had done it. Memory was insubordination. Insubordination brought pain. But it had been four years, and he was under the state’s control now. In some ways, they were no kinder than Hydra, but perhaps they had different protocols on forms of address.

John felt wrong. Flat, and soulless. It felt like putting on a uniform that was too small. It limited him. But the other name... _what was it? That_ had felt better, still tight around the chest, but seeming to fit everywhere else. If nothing else, he’d share the raw, fuzzy memory to obey the unspoken order, and if he hurt him for it, it made no difference. Steve seemed level, and fair, but he was a handler, and he couldn’t be trusted. But he also couldn’t be disobeyed, and an order was an order no matter how conversational it had sounded.

_“James?”_

Somehow, it had become a question. He hadn’t meant it, but something deep inside the Soldier craved confirmation for that one thing. But it was a confirmation his officer could no more give him than he could. Still the man nodded, and his mouth turned up in a faint smile... _pleased_ , the Soldier thought.

“Alright.” Steve agreed, feeling better now that his prisoner had chosen his own title. The system already gave this man titles, and labels, and brands. Steve didn’t need to do that as well. “James then.” Steve lips parted to speak again but he faltered. He was pushing it. Steve’s every instinct drove him to be kind, and fair, but kindness and fairness where elements that got you taken advantage of by prisoners. Be too kind- be too fair- and before you know it, you’re running drugs for gangs on the inside. You were smuggling weapons into the hands of dangerous men, and furthering the brutality that already happened inside the walls of the maximum security prison. He desperately wanted to establish a humane relationship with this prisoner, but he needed to be careful. Weather or not he had a soft voice, or beautiful, broken eyes, this man was dangerous, and Steve had to protect himself, the other prisoners, and the men he worked with.

He needed distance.

“As you were, James.” He said quietly, but the note of open, familiarity had vanished. And Steve slid the food slot close, blocking the image of the beautiful, tormented man on the other side of the cell.

-.-.-.-.-.-

After the initial two words his charge granted him, James didn’t speak again. Steve would occasionally comment something to him, but he never responded. Some officers would see that as insubordination, warranting punishment, but not Steve. Everyone was entitled to their silence, and he assumed James was either absorbed in his own thoughts, a book, or just simply didn’t want to talk to him. That was no crime. After what this prison had done to him, he had no reason to accept Steve’s company. Steve bore no grudge against him for that.

But as the first, then the second, and then the third week wore on, Steve grew curious. He heard very little from behind his prisoner’s door. When one’s entire world was limited to a tiny, white rectangle, what were you supposed to do to keep yourself occupied? To keep yourself sane?

“James,” Steve said evenly, cracking the food slot so his voice would carry through better. “What are you doing in there?” His charge had shown that he would respond to direct questions, and because of that, Steve had actually _avoided_ them. He left any statements he made in hopes of conversation open ended, so James didn’t feel like he wasn being cornered into answering. If they were going to speak to each other, he wanted it to be his choice. Now, just this once, Steve was curious for an answer.

Behind the cell door, the words carried to the Soldier’s ears, and his heart stuttered in his chest. Despite the stifling heat in the cell, his skin grew suddenly clammy. “I’m-” He drew in a breath, his voice low, and raspy. _“...behaving…”_

_God. Don’t punish me._

Steve blinked, for a second, the hesitant reply stirring suspicion in his gut. But after a moment, he brushed off the feeling. He’d had one glimpse, and now four words with James and he already knew he wasn’t one to falter out unconvincing reassurances if he was up to something. He had too much dignity for that, and suddenly realization sunk into the pit of his stomach. The hesitance was pure _fear._ Seven little words, and Steve had made him _afraid_ of him.

 _“Oh-”_ He started, easing the slot open the rest of the way, and crouching again, his brow knit in something like an apology. “No- I’m not... _accusing_ you. I was curious.”  He hadn’t meant to startled him. He hadn’t meant to make him feel like he was hanging punishment over his head for something he may or may not even be done. But the Soldier was jumpy. Past guards had punished him for lesser things than sitting quietly on his bed.

The Soldier’s lungs tightened, and then eased with a quiet release of breath. He wouldn’t be punished. _Yet._ He was sure this new guard would warm up to it. Regardless, his direct question still stood. “Nothing.” The Soldier intoned, quiet, and truthful. He’d exercised the best he could in the tiny room, and then taken his daily ‘bird bath’ from the sink already. And now, there was nothing left to do.

“What books do you have in there?” Steve asked easily, resting his back against the door. James had been out of sight, probably sitting on the bed, and he saw no need to remain peering into the room if he couldn’t even make eye contact with the person he was talking to. The silence behind the cell door was deafening. For a moment, Steve felt a stir of agitation. Direct questions required direct answers. He didn’t _want_ to discipline James. If he could avoid it, he _would,_ but he also needed to keep his authority if he didn’t want the tables to turn. James couldn’t be the one controlling him. He had just shifted his back away from the door, turning to give him a level, serious warning, before the meaning of his silence suddenly hit Steve like a brick to the back of the head.

_James had no reading material._

Had he _ever?_ In all this time had _no one_ giving that man a book? _Christ_ \- how was he even sane? Life in a tiny white box would get to everyone eventually, some faster than others, and having something to take your mind off the passing months helped. If they were in the communal branch of the prison, that could be accomplished through library time, workshops, and service hours. Prisoners could whittle away their years in the yard, or the cafeteria, or in gambling for cigarettes with piles of rounded pebbles. Those in solitary confinement had fewer options, but books were _always_ furnished, and rotated on a regular schedule to give them something fresh to occupy their minds. It kept them invested. It kept them sane.

_And James had been given nothing._

Not being given a book may not seem like such a huge offense, but when it was the only distraction one was given, it made all the difference in the world. Steve drew a breath, trying to keep his head level, trying to suppress the outrage that threatened to flood his chest. In his charge’s tiny suffocating world, he needed _something._ A magazine, a menu, a fucking _dictionary_ for god’s sake- _anything_ to take him away for just a _little bit._ He was a human, not a mindless machine. He _deserved_ an escape.

“When was the last time they gave you something to read, James…” He said, but his voice still sounded off. Too hushed. Dangerous. And for a moment, he thought the tone in his voice had locked his prisoner into silence, before the pattern reemerged in his mind. James answered direct questions, unless the answer was no. _What do you have to read?_ Silence. _Nothing._ _When was the last time they gave you something to read?_ Silence. _Never._ If James didn’t think he could give Steve an answer that would satisfy him, he didn’t answer. The implication made the officer shudder.

A sink, and toilet, four walls, and his own thoughts. _That_ was the company James had been given.

 _Four years_ , without a single thing to take his mind away.

Steve felt his blood flush with heat, anger coiling in the pit of his stomach. This man may be a murderer, but he was a human being, and this- this complete and total _deprivation,_ was barely shy of torture. Steve knew the psychological implications, and it made his stomach knot with injustice. How could they expect anyone to recover under conditions like these? The food slot slid closed with a _pop,_ Steve’s head pounding with anger as he blindly ran-though the lockdown procedure that was necessary every time the prisoner's door was left unguarded. He needed to leave. Immediately.

He had something _very_ serious to discuss with his superior.

 


	2. Contact

All it took was one look for the warden to know Rogers had a bee up his ass.

The man stood in his doorway, _technically_ waiting for permission to enter, but his outrage already oozed through the doorway, turning the air heavy, and thick. His muscles were drawn tight, a muscle twinging in his jaw; his clear blue eyes had turned cold, and stormy. The warden had seen him like this before, and it _always_ resulted in a long, drawn out argument, and more paperwork than he’d like to deal with. Heaving a sigh, he pinched his brow, jerking his head to usher his employee in.

“What is it this time, Rogers?” He growled, wishing the meeting over already. This couldn’t be good.

Steve stepped into the office, his stomach twisted into a knot of anger; his lips pressed into a thin line. This conversation was long overdue. “Sir-” He started, and the warden’s eyes snapped up, flashing with warning. Dragging in a breath through his teeth, Steve adjusted his tone, letting the anger bleed out of his voice and into other parts of his body, his fists clenching a little tighter. _“Sir,”_ He started again, but this time, his tone was professional, although he still couldn’t rid it of its faint, biting edge. “I have to protest to the conditions of my charge.”

_Big fucking surprise_. His superior sunk down into his chair with a huff, his mouth setting tightly. Steve remained standing, too pissed to make things familiar by taking the seat across from him. “Rogers, your charge’s conditions have been the same since the day he got here, and so far, there hasn’t been trouble-”

“That _is_ the trouble-” Steve snapped, earning himself another warning look. He shouldn’t have interrupted his superior officer, but by this point, he could hardly help it. “Sir- My charge has been in his cell for four years with no reprieve. He’s been given no yard time, and no reading material. He has no real shower facilities. The lights are on in his cell 24/7- Sir, all the other solitary prisoners have some measure of access to these privileges, I’ve worked in that unit! _I know!”_ The warden had raised to his feet but Steve pressed on, his cheeks flaring with anger. “The others get an hour to two hours of yard time a day, they have access to a full shower once a week. _All_ of them have reading material. Why is my charge any different?”

_“Your charge_ is a dangerous man!” The warden snapped, and Steve’s eyes flashed with mutiny.

“And the others _aren’t?_ The other’s are dangerous too, but they’re _human beings,_ just like James! He deserves better treatment than this- sir- _he’s not a machine-”_

_“Enough,_ Rogers!” The warden snapped, slamming his palm flat on the desk, jarring everything on top, and Steve bit off his words into mutinous silence. His superior stalked around the desk, footfalls heavy, and threatening. He stopped in front of Steve, chest to chest with the younger man, jaw clenched together. “Listen to me officer.” He gritted out, eyes flashing with warning. “You can come in here- you can make you case for whatever sap you think is worth your time, but you keep your tone, do you understand me?” The man snapped, Steve holding his gaze.

“Now-” He said cooly, easing down a little out of his employee’s space, his jaw twinging from the force of having it locked. “I want to avoid trouble with this metal armed maniac if at all possible. I want him behind that six inch steel door at all times, and I want him quiet, and compliant by any means necessary. Keeping him _contained,_ and keeping him _quiet; those_ are your jobs. Not babying him. Now get out of my office before you say something that’ll get you fired.”

Steve swallowed hard, watching as the man turned his back to him, and biting back the torrent of words that threatened to escape him. Had this man ever seen his prisoner in person? Had he been the one to look at those hollow, broken eyes and decide he needed to be locked away with nothing but his thoughts for the rest of his life? Steve couldn’t believe that was true. He had a hard time believing _anyone_ could sentence another human to such an existence. He set his jaw, letting out a long slow breath before his eyes flickered close. His superior had threatened his employment, and Steve knew he’d meant it, he’d been close enough to losing his job over prisoners in the past, but this was one he couldn’t let go.

“Sir?”

The warden stopped dead, his backing having been turned, his hands already idling rearranging anything that had been jarred out of place on his desk. Rogers’ word met his ear like slap. _Didn’t this man give up?_ He pursed his lips, turning to glance back over his shoulder, _daring_ him to push. But Steve’s gaze was level, and even; determined even under threat of being terminated.

“Reading material?”

The two words cause the warden more irritation that a swarm of mosquitoes. It was ridiculous the lengths this man would go to for one prisoner. But in the grand scheme of things, a book was...fairly harmless. And it would get Rogers the fuck out of his office. _“Fine.”_ He spat coldly. “Get something approved from the library. No more than one book in his cell at a time, and if any trouble comes of this whatsoever you’re out of here on your ass, do we understand each other?”

That satisfied glint in Rogers’ eyes made him want to take it all back.

“Yes sir.” Steve nodded, his mouth curling into a smirk against his better judgement, and he granted his superior an obliging nod. “Thank you sir.” Before anything more could be said to retract the permission, Steve turned, and strode out the door. As soon as he left his feet were carrying him to the library.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The Soldier lay, curled up on his bed, his knees level with his chest, his eyes glazed over, and unfocused, but he was still keenly aware of his surrounds. He always was, he couldn’t help it. And it was torture. His body forcing him to be constantly vigilant in a largely unchanging environment was nothing more than a recipe for anxiety and frayed senses. Whatever Hydra had done to his body, whatever drugs, and serums and chemicals they pumped him full of, something kept him hyper alert, and seldom let him rest. Only once in a great while would his guard slip, allowing him a few hours of fitful sleep. But in the meantime, it was vigilant, itching eyes, and adrenaline that was all too ready to dump into his veins. His body was always prepared to fight and kill, even after so long locked in a stable ecosystem.

Nothing could get in, and he couldn’t get out. But still the Soldier couldn’t rest.

The moment he heard the door click, still rooms away, his eyes cleared, and he lifted himself out of the vulnerable position. A guard always brought with it the possibility of a threat. Although so far, three weeks had passed, and this one had yet to terrorize him. He heard the footsteps coming closer, sensed the difference in the mood. An energy thrummed through his guard’s step, and it stirred a restless itch inside the Soldier’s chest. Once, he might have called it curiosity, now it was just a subtle, uncomfortable fear of the unknown.

The food slot opened.

By this point, the Soldier had grown used to that. His guard opened the slot whenever he wanted to talk to him. It was a civility, even though the Soldier neither needed, nor _deserved_ it. His guard wanted him to hear him clearly, possibly even want to hear what _he_ had to say in return. _He seldom had anything to say._

“I’m back, and I brought you something. Come to the door.”

The guard’s voice slipped through the slot; open, and amiable as always, but it didn’t stop the Soldier’s instinct to draw a breath, and prepare for the worst. If it wasn’t food, it was punishment, no matter how coated in assurance it was. But something deep inside the Soldier had programed him to submit -to obey- and he approached the slot with resigned tension, holding his hands under the slot and bracing.

Something light and solid slipped through the gap, dropping with a dual-tone _thump_ into his mismatched hands. He jerked, eyes snapping down. And suddenly, the tension eased.

A small, paperback book lay in his hands. The pages were worn, and soft, and dog-eared in multiple places; the cover was torn at one corner. Slowly, the Soldier took hold of it with a little more confidence; silent as he stepped back away from the door and turned it the right way in his hands. _‘Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring.’_ His metal fingers skimmed the title, drinking in the handful of words, his brain coming alive as his deprived synapses soaked in the chance to form new connections; to make new paths. His eyes registered the faded colors of the cover; his nose, the smell of worn paper. The book was older, and had been well-used, but to the Soldier, it was brand new. It was the first- the _only_ new thing to _ever_ pass into his harsh, closed little world.

Forgetting about his guard all but entirely, the Soldier dropped back down on his bed, the frame thumping in his moment of detached shock. He never made a sound, not if he could help it, but in the moment, he didn’t even flinch at the noise. He turned open the cover, drinking in every word, not one going unread. Author, publisher, copyright, acknowledgments. _Everything._ The Soldier absorbed every word, savoring each letter like a rare treat. Because it was _new_...it was something _new_...and a weak part of the Soldier wanted to cry with relief.

Outside the door, Steve listened to the shocked silence, and the the ruffle of pages; the intake of breath, and he felt his chest tighten despite himself. He was glad. He was glad he could get this for James. Glad he could do something to ease the soul-sucking monotony that had been inflicted on his charge. His fingers softly grazed the edge of the slot, a little smile lifting at his mouth. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to have this earlier…” He said quietly, not even certain his charge was listening. But the pages stopped turning. Steve nervously licked his lips. He really did need to stay professional, but after seeing this man's conditions...he couldn’t help but think it would be nice for him to know he had someone on his side... Taking an uncertain breath, Steve cautiously pressed on. “It wasn’t right for them to leave you in there with nothing. I’m not gonna let that happen again.”

The Soldier’s fingers stilled on the pages, his guard’s words washing over him. They sounded nice... _soothing_ even, like he could lose himself in them and forget where he was...like he could curl up inside them and feel -for once- _safe…_ Of course that wasn’t the case. He was still his guard and the Soldier couldn’t let any part of him trust him, because he would eventually hurt him, and he didn’t need to make that any worse than it inevitably would be. Slowly, the man dipped his head, his eyes blindly skimming over the page- the world waiting behind the ink and paper to take him away, even if just for a while. He let his fingers drag over it, his lips parting to form words he didn’t know how to say anymore.

_Thank you._

They tried to push past his frozen lips, but nothing would come out, and he swallowed hard, letting out a shaky sigh. He’d been given a privilege. They were few, and far inbetween, and frankly, he wasn’t at all sure how to react.

At the silence on the other side of the door, Steve gave a faint, resigned smile. Privilege or not, it still didn’t entitle him to James’ company. His charge still owed him nothing, not his words, or his time of day, and Steve respected his silence, unaware that the broken man under his watch was struggling, even now, to verbalize the feelings that had suddenly tightened his chest. Even not knowing this, even not knowing that something in James wanted to speak to him, Steve held nothing against him. Tipping down his chin, Steve softly slid the little slot closed with a faint click, turning its lock to keep it in place. He’d leave James to his reading. He was sure he needed it.

The Soldier listened as his guard’s footfalls took him a ways away from the cell door, a chair squeaking softly somewhere nearby. He listened as the sound of his breathing moved beyond what he could hear even with his enhanced sense, leaving him with this...this _gift._ This _privilege_ he wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve. He turned his eyes down to the pages again, resigning himself to silence as he’d done every day for the past three weeks. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could verbalize what his handler wanted to hear. But the words stayed stuck down behind his throat, and refused to break free when he needed them. And for the first time, the Soldier suddenly questioned why he wanted them to.

_Why did he want to thank him? To speak to him?_ Gratitude wasn’t in his programming. He was designed to accept whatever was pushed on him, punishment or reward with silent, submissive, compliance. Yet right now...this particular handler made him want to break that pattern.

No- Not handler.

_Steve._

He swallowed uncertainly. Maybe he couldn’t adjust to speaking to him right now, but he could adjust to a more inward change...he could start thinking of him by his name...He could give _him_ a name in his own mind, the way Steve had give him _his_...He didn’t call him by numbers. He didn’t call him Soldier, or Asset. He called him _James_ …And his guard- _Steve-_ deserved the same respect from him.

Letting that resolve sink in, the Soldier _-no-_ James, shifted back further on his bed, and slowly let himself sink into the world bound up in paper and ink in his hands. The world....Steve? Right... _Steve_ , had given him. Every so often, he brought himself back out; back to his harsh, bright, unforgiving world, just to remind himself.

He was James.

And his guard was Steve.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Steve measured instances of change with his prisoner in terms of weeks. No two instances ever seemed to happen in less time than that, and Steve couldn’t blame him. One word a week was average. His record of two on their first day still remained unbroken. It had been a week and a half since Steve had slipped the worn copy of the Fellowship of the Ring through the food slot, and so far, he hadn’t heard a sound in response. James may well have tossed it in the corner of his cell and not touched it, scorning anything a guard may have brought him. He may have poured over every word. Steve didn’t know, but he’d like to let things unfold naturally if they could. And so he continued with the daily routine. Food tray in. Food tray out. Twice a day, as every day.

Today, Steve slid open the food slot, smiling faintly as he heard quiet movement on the other side of the heavy white door. “Lunch.” He called feeding the tray through, and feeling the resistance on his hands ease as his charge received the meal. He listened to the quiet scuffle, the rough creak of the bed as he settled himself, and again, it was curiosity that drove him to ask a direct question. He licked his lips, tracing the edge of the food slot absently as he spoke. “Did you uh...Did you read at all, James?”

On his narrow, hard bunk, the prisoner glanced up from his food. _James._ That’s right, that was him, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. Trying to shed the title of Soldier or Asset was proving more difficult than he’d thought. But he was trying. He was _trying_ to be James, and he was trying to let his guard be Steve. Slowly, he let Steve’s question sink in; debated how, or _if_ he was even capable of answering. Short answer: _Yes_. Long answer: _Yes,_ and it was the most relief he’d felt in four years. _Yes,_ and he'd reread it two... _no_ , _three_ times in the twelve days since. _Yes,_ and for just a short while, the voices in his head were silent. _Thank you._

James drew an even breath, and forced his rusty vocal cords to work; forced his mouth to comply with his mind. _“Yes…”_ Short answer. It was better than nothing.

Steve felt his heart suddenly leap in his chest, the tiny, patient smile on his lips suddenly spreading into a grin. James hadn’t shunned the book. He’d taken the little bit of help Steve could offer him, and Steve felt a sudden wave of relief wash over his soul. He’d had a distraction. He’d had a respite, even if only for a few hours. _‘Did you like it’_ pushed at his lips, but Steve swallowed the words back. It was a direct question, and Steve had already allowed himself one today. He wouldn’t corner his charge into any more answers. He’d leave it up to him, and take the inevitable silence.

“I hope you liked it.” Steve said quietly, his tone open, inviting response, but not demanding it, and he heard a slow, restless creak behind the door, as though his charge was shifting where he sat. It had been a long moment, and Steve had just turned to move away from the door when a cautious, rusty voice slipped out after him.

"I- I did."

Steve frozen where he stood, the response not immediately registering. He had gotten so used to his gentle prompts going unanswered that the reply rocked him. He blinked rapidly, lips parting as he glanced back. _Three words._ Three words in a day. It was more than Steve ever expected to hear. Swallowing once, Steve turned back, easing down slowly until he was level with the slot. He could see just a sliver of his charge from where he sat on the bed. Just a glimpse of muscular legs, and mismatched hands holding the tray in his lap. He hadn't seen his face since the first day. James stayed carefully out of Steve's sight line most of the time, and just having this much of him visible was rare.

Steve picked his words with care. The thought of actually coaxing a short conversation out of James made his body prickle with anticipation; with the knowledge that he was slowly gaining some twisted form of trust. "Good," he replied, keeping his tone gentle, and warm. "I'm glad. If you'd like...I'll bring you the next book."

Inside, James suddenly forgot the food tray in his lap that was normally his sole focus at this time of the day. He set it carefully on the mattress, and, taking a deep breath, slowly moved towards the slot. He wasn't used to seeing people; wasn't used to _being_ seen, but he could also tell a lie when it flickered in someone's eyes. He could decide whether this blessing was going to be somehow used against him.

Steve saw the movement, and caught his breath.

James moved into his line of sight, and Steve felt his lungs still. Maybe it was wrong of him to even _think,_ but his prisoner was _beautiful._ His deep, anguished eyes drilled holes into his soul, and buried something burning deep inside him. His dry, cracked lips were full, and blood red, and Steve found himself suddenly smothering out thoughts of how they would feel in a kiss. He'd spent the better part of five weeks trying to help this man, trying to give him the humane treatment he deserved, and now, on his second true sight of him, he felt a stir of fatal attraction kindling deep in the pit of his stomach. These kinds of thought could get him fired if he acted on them. Not only that, but his charge was clearly in no condition to trust anyone, much less reciprocate any kind of attraction. They simply couldn't go any further than that. Steve wanted this man to be treated with fairness and dignity. He could admit to having gone so far as developing something of a protective streak towards him, and now, he could also appreciate that he was very beautiful, but that was where it stopped. That was where it _had_ to stop. _For the sake of everyone involved..._

James could feel his guards eyes on him, but the expression was one that was unfamiliar to him. For a second, he just stared, and then conflict flashed through Steve's eyes and he lowered his gaze. Instinctively, the Soldier did the same. His lips twitched, throat tensing with unspoken words. His tongue felt dry, and nervous tension twisted in the pit of his stomach. How did ask for something for himself? His handler- _Steve_ had offered, but confirming that he wanted more of the rare treat he'd been given...it felt like a slap to the face to the authority over him. His lips pressed together once more.

Steve drank James in memorizing the angular, symmetrical lines of the face he was so privileged to see. Letting his tongue slid out to nervously moisten his lips, Steve tried again. "Would you like the second book, James?"

The man behind the door drew a long, slow breath in through his nose, and his keeper could see the yearning mingled with fear in his eyes; so badly wanting to ask, yet so afraid of his greed being used as an excuse to hurt him. But unconscious as it may have been this time, Steve had asked a direct question, and his conditioning to obey his handler ran far deeper than his fear of punishment. He consciously loosened his throat, envisioning the words, hearing them in his mind before managing to form them with his lips and tongue.

"Yes..." He rasped, unused to hearing his own voice so many times in a day, much less within the same hours. Swallowing hard, his lashes fluttered in a moment of anxiety, his chest tightening. "Please-" James whispered meekly. He wasn't sure exactly what the purpose of the word was, to make his unacceptable greed more subservient, or to beg forgiveness for it. He didn't know. It didn't matter.

After a heavy second, the Soldier lifted his eyes to the stunning blue of his guard's.

Steve's mouth was turned into a warm, unthreatening smile.  Those eyes that had, at first, been so abrasive to his abused senses, were gentle, and deep, and impossibly soft. The voices in his head faded to background noise, murmuring indistinctly about a sky he'd forgotten; a sky he remembered now only through the clear blue of his keeper's eyes. And suddenly, the Soldier- James, felt the fear in his stomach unknot, giving way to cautious relief. _This man wasn't going to hurt him._ He was too damaged to believe that he was _never_ going to hurt him, but he tentatively began to hope- began to believe that maybe he wouldn't hurt him _now,_ or if he was lucky, even for a while. Until the prison hardened, and twisted this man like it did everyone, James could nurture the fragile belief that he was safe, if only for a short bit. It could be months, he could have as much as a _year_ of peace, and he would indulge in every moment until eventually, this gentle handler turned on him too.  

Steve couldn't suppress the thrill of pleasure that ran through him. James was _talking_ to him. He was allowing himself to ask for things, even if it still took a little gentle prompting. James was giving him his trust in tiny grains, and crumbs. These few little victories might be all the trust he had, but Steve was determined to care for the little bit that was given to him. Patting his hand against the door in two short touches, Steve pulled a little bit away from the slot, his smile warming gently. He watched his charge's cautious, damaged eyes flicker to follow him and he gave him a reassuring nod. "Okay," he said with a soft smile. "I'll get that for you. I'll just be a minute."

The Soldier nodded mutely, easing back, still watching every part of his guard he could see with carefully guarded hope. He didn't think he should trust this man, but it didn't change the fact that a tiny little part of his scarred and mangled heart _wanted_ to. He watched as he drew away, watched as the slot closed and latched, and then listened hungrily for his footsteps until they faded from his senses.

This time, his body would do as he instructed. This time, he was going to thank him.

-.-.-.-.-.-

The slot opened again a few minutes later, preceded by the sound of Steve’s returning footsteps. As the Soldier heard them approaching, something strange happened at the corners of his mouth. They tightened, and tugged, pulling ever so slightly upwards before he bit lightly on the insides to make the expression stop. It was unfamiliar, even though he’d seen the expression twice now on his keeper’s face. A smile. It wasn’t an expression that was allowed him, but his body responded without his permission, stealing a moment to feel something as close to happiness as his tortured emotions could achieve.

The sound of Steve’s breath met his sensitive ears, and his energy seemed to radiate through the 3x10 slot. James slipped from the bed, moving over with less hesitation then he could ever remember feeling in the past. Happy wasn’t the word. He wasn’t all the way to happy. He wasn’t all the way to unafraid, but he was, maybe, _eager_...something like excited, or maybe even pleased. His emotions were too rusty to really put to name. He had grown so accustom to his set of fear, anxiety, depression, and apathy that he could hardly recognize the other feelings at all. But they were there...for the first time in four years...they were there.

“ _Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers,”_ Steve read off from the other side of the door, and James felt the sudden urge to reach for it through the slot. His hand would fit, but his wrist still bore a thick, bubbling scar from the chemical that had been sprayed on the vulnerable skin the last time he’d tried. He kept his hands close, waiting anxiously. He shifted from foot to foot, tense, and restless. When nothing came through, something like a whine rippled up from his throat. He quickly bit off the unauthorized sound.

“Can you pass the other one back out?”

And just like that, the eager, _almost_ excitement shriveled up into a husk of stunned disappointed. _He was taking it from him._ His book. His privilege. The Soldier drew a level breath, his eyes darkening as he pulled away. The guard probably had no intention of giving him a new book. The trick was probably just easier than stripping him of his privilege forcefully. His hands found the battered stack of paper possessively.  

Outside, Steve faltered at the silence. He waited, eyes fixed on the slot for the peak of soft paper, but nothing slid through, and Steve breathed a sigh. _“James,”_ He said quietly, resting his free hand on the door, his forehead almost touching the warm metal. “I can’t let you have more than one in there...that was my restriction to get this for you, and I’ve got to keep that promise to my superiors, alright? I promise I’ll give The Fellowship back if you want it, but it’s gotta be a trade off. One book. I’m sorry.”

The Soldier felt his jaw tighten, felt the little flicker of trust sputter, but it refused to quite go out, no matter how he ground it into the dirt. The book was familiar, and comforting in his hands. His only escape. And this guard wanted to take it from him. But a glimpse of the second book through the slot caused his suspicion to waver. He eased in, slowly, carefully, his bare feet moving silently across the flat, concrete floor. The book remained pressed close to him, but the greed this guard had stirred inside him was growing rapidly. He’d let himself want this, and now, he wasn’t sure he could go back to life without it. He wasn’t sure he could go back to having only the harsh white light for company, to having the voices scratching at the inside of his skull. The book eased away from his chest, still clutched in guarded hands.

Slowly, Steve saw the edge slip through the slot. The movement was laced with suspicion and reluctance, like nothing in James wanted to release it. Steve waited, waited until over half of the book had eked through the slot before taking its spine in gentle hands. For a moment, he felt resistance, and he eased his hold, not pulling it from his charge’s hands. And then slowly, James relinquished it, a strangled sound vibrating in his throat as he did. It was the first sound he’d heard from James that hadn’t been carefully, and painstakingly processed before it was uttered. It sounded pained. _Involuntary._

Almost the moment his book had been lifted from his hands, James saw the second book easing through to him, and he reflexively snatched it, plucking it from Steve’s hand. He drew in in with him quickly, turning it over and drinking in the words on the front cover. And finally, a little of the tension slipped out of his body. The new book was safely in his hands. His book was in Steve’s, but as he let the guarded suspicion ebb, he let himself carefully adjust to the notion that it might just be safe there.

The pages felt safe, and familiar against his skin, the fingertips of his right hands grazing over them. They were just as worn as the pages of _his_ book. The cover was just as tattered, and he was sure crass words had been penciled into the margins, but as he turned it over in his hands, all of that melted away. It was his now, if only for a while.

Through the steel border that separated them, Steve felt a little, satisfied smile pull at his mouth. He felt the weight of the book in his hand, heard James’ soft breathing on the other side of the cell door. He’d leave him alone now; leave him to himself, in the hope that next time, he might trust him enough to ask for himself. Steve’s hand found it’s way to the door off the slot, taking hold of the little knob.

Sudden as a flash of lightning, fingers _clamped_ down on the edge of the slot, and Steve jerked in shock as his warm flesh brushed cold metal. His hand stopped dead, not daring to move. James blocked the track for the little door to close, his fingers just barely touching Steve’s. For a moment, the air hung between them, silent, and heavy, Steve’s heart slamming in his ribs. The fingers on the edge of the slot twitched, and an uncertain rattle of breath met Steve’s ears, little, aborted sounds faltering behind the barrier as James tried to form words.

“- _Thank you…_ ”

It was barely over a breath- halting, and distorted, like his speech center had been damaged after so long in disuse, and Steve knew it was entirely possible. If James had seldom spoke over four years, and had very little said to him, his instincts would have grown rusty. It could take him a long time to adjust to speaking again. Years out of practice, potentially even hurt when he’d tried... _and James had chosen to speak to him._

Steve’s chest tightened, his mouth turning up into a pained smile, and for just a second, Steve dared to move his fingers a little closer against his. As though realizing the contact, James abruptly pulled back, his hand disappearing into the slot with a short intake of breath. Steve couldn’t have expected anything else. Slowly, his hand moved back to the knob, curing loosely around it, his eyes still fixed on the slot as something like affection began to bloom in his chest. This man he’d overseen for over a month was beginning to open himself up in tiny bits at a time, and Steve was privileged for every glimpse for him he got to have. Smiling softly, Steve pulled the sliding door closed with a gentle _click._

_“You’re welcome, James…”_


	3. Request

He'd turned over the words until his mind went numb. He'd said them over in his head- whispered them under his breath and tasted them on his tongue. They felt strange, and clumsy, and never sounded quite right no matter how many times he said them. Still, he murmured them under his breath again, and again. It would be the first time _he'd_ initiated contact with his guard...the first time he'd spoken more than two or three words as far back as he could remember. He wasn't answering an order, he was asking something for himself, and it filled his fragile, damaged heart with a frantic scratch of anxiety.

The scrap of trust he'd placed in Steve's hands could still turn around and hurt him, but at the same time, it _ached_ for a chance to blossom. After so long of silence, and subjugation, and torture, James wanted something normal, something he hadn't had in his limited memory. _A chance to feel human._

With slow, faltering hands, James reached out, resting his fingertips against the closed slot. He could hear Steve's breathing outside the closed door; the lazy flip of book pages, and the occasional shift of his chair. He could hear his quiet movements, and his heart rate picked up. Throat tight with nervous tension, James drew back his metal fingers; and tapped shortly on the slot.

Instantly the sounds outside changed as his guard register the noise. The chair squeaked; his heavy boots thumped across the floor, and suddenly, the food slot open under his hand. James drew back, his lungs constricting as a Steve crouched, and those bright, clear blue eyes appeared through the small opening. The corners crinkled a little, his mouth turning up at the corners.

"Hey," he greeted in a hushed tone that already seemed too loud. The Soldier's senses were agitated, and frayed, his organic hand shaking where it was clenched at his side. He drew a breath through his teeth, the words he'd formed over and over again catching in his throat. But Steve just waited, his head tipping in an encouraging nod.

"I-" James drew in a breath, his lips pressing together, eyes flickering with trapped uncertainty. He wanted to speak. A resilient part of the person he'd once been wanted to reclaim some little thread of humanity, but so long in submissive, terrified silence had made speaking a challenge of mountainous proportion. It wasn't that simple for him. Not any more. But he played the words over in his mind one more time, and closed his eyes, blocking out the distracting blue of Steve's. And haltingly, he tried again. "May I-" another ragged breath. "-have the next one... _please_..."

Beyond the door, Steve’s mouth went slack. He tried not to react too visibly, but he couldn't help the slight parting of his lips; the ways his eyes widened despite himself. He'd- he'd _spoken_ to him...he'd _asked_ something for himself, and Steve felt a sudden rush in his chest. It was something like pride, but warmer. It made his head feel fuzzy, and his mouth pulled into a faint smile. James was coming around, if only a tiny bit at a time. He was was letting himself tell Steve what he needed, and it made Steve's heart turn over in his chest. Very slowly, and in tiny bits at a time, James was beginning to trust him.

Steve could feel his stir of protectiveness twining together with his aesthetic attraction to his charge. He could feel them twisting together like ribbons of silk, tangling beautifully into a perilous knot of affection. It was so dangerous- so _wrong._ He could lose his position, his reputation, and that didn’t even _skim_ the demands of his moral obligations. He couldn’t- _shouldn’t._ God- He shouldn't let himself even _begin_ to feel this way, but it was there all the same. It was small, and young, and tender, but still affection nonetheless. And if Steve wasn’t very careful, _it was going to keep growing._

But he couldn’t make himself change his behavior, and push James to arms length...not when he was just beginning to relearn how to trust...

Snapping out of his thoughts, Steve nodded, even as James lowered his eyes away. His shoulder’s shifting forward -hunching- seeming to be trying to make himself smaller, as though that would somehow minimize the offense he _thought_ he'd just committed. _"Yeah,"_ Steve said quickly, keeping his tone soft, and he watched, his heart giving a funny little stutter in his chest as those deep, steel blue eyes snapped back up to his. "I can get that for you. Was it as good as the first?” He asked easily, daring to press his luck, tentatively leaving James another opening to speak.

James felt the knot in his chest suddenly uncoiling, relief spilling through his veins at the positive reaction. Slowly, he gave a tiny nod, his eyes dropping away. He listened to the sound of Steve grabbing his jacket, to the sounds of him preparing to leave his enclosure unattended, when suddenly, a halting sentiment slipped his rough, chapped lips.

“I- liked Boromir…”

Steve stopped dead. For a second, he wasn’t sure what he’d heard. He just stood there, hands still on the lapels of his jacket to straighten it, half turned towards the door. It didn’t immediately register to his mind. And then, after a shocked moment, it did. James had offered more than a confirmation or a denial. More than a hesitant, fearful request. He was sharing something _personal,_ even on just the smallest level. Carefully, Steve turned back to the slot, moving to sink back down onto his chair. He could see a sliver of his charge on the inside, half out of view, his chin tipped down. But his eyes were wide, snapping back and forth...as though he didn’t know where the words had come from. They’d shocked him as much as they’d shocked his caretaker. Steve laced his fingers together, parting his lips as he considered his words.

“I read all three books when I was a kid…” He started quietly, not sure if James was really absorbing his words. He looked lost, and confused. “Back then, I didn’t like Boromir, I thought he was a bad person for trying to take the ring. I thought that made him as bad as any of the other villains in the books...but I read them again later when I was a little older, and...I realized it wasn’t his fault.” He cast a careful glance through to his prisoner, but the man’s eyes had only widened, his lips parted in something like shock. He hardly seemed to be breathing. “He couldn’t help it…” Steve added softly. “He really _was_ a good man, but...he was _used_...I think a lot of people forget that.”

Steve glanced back through the slot, and felt a sudden thrill of uncertainty run up his spine. James wasn’t moving at all. His face had frozen, eyes fixed wide, chest still. His hands were loose by his sides. Steve trailed off, hesitation suddenly flooding his chest. James was utterly still, but his eyes were alive with emotion. They were unmoving, but they reflected something that made Steve’s skin crawl, and his stomach plunge with hurt, and pity. He didn’t look like he could see the cell, or the book, or Steve at all. He looked haunted- suddenly sucked into his own head with no means of escape...a worse prison than even the physical one in which he was trapped.

“James?” Steve murmured in an undertone, but the word stirred no reaction. His lips were parted, skin sallow, and pale, suddenly glinting with a cold, sick sweat. _“James,”_ He pressed, raising his tone, his hands pressing on either side of the slot, and James abruptly flinched. He blinked rapidly, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks and he took a clumsy step backwards. His eyes were wet. He looked like he was going to be sick. Steve pressed his forehead to the metal door, the lower edge of the slot pressing a line against the bridge of his nose. “James, look at me.” He ordered in a low tone, his eyes bright with concern. But the firm order did nothing to refocus in the man in the cell.

His charge’s eyes snapped towards him in sick fear; animated, but nonetheless haunted. He backed away, suddenly moving out of view of the slot, knowing exactly where to move to escape Steve’s gaze. “No-” Steve protested shortly, pressing his palm against the door. “James-” He started but swallowed it back. The words of concern stuck in his throat, clogging his mouth and nose as he crouched there, pressed against the door. He just wanted to help… _He looked so scared..._

Drawing in a careful breath, Steve pulled away just a inch. He felt like he’d done something wrong- said something that resounded with his prisoner on some deep, painful level. He hurt him...and he wasn’t even sure how… His mouth felt sticky, and dry, and Steve licked his lips, his head scrambling to find words that could sooth the look of panic that had raked open James’ soul. “I…” He faltered, swallowing hard, the metal of the door felt too warm under his hands. How did he fix this? _Could_ he fix this? All he wanted was to take back whatever he’d said, and go back to James _almost_ trusting him. But he couldn't.

Inside, James had gone totally still, and silent, hidden from Steve’s view. He...he wanted to get away from him...The realization settled dimly into his mind, turning his stomach sour. James wanted to get away from him, and so far it was the only thing he could think to do. Swallowed hard, Steve moved back shakily. Maybe distance wasn’t what James _needed,_ but it was the best Steve felt he could offer him. He’d hidden from him. He’d moved out of his sight and it was clear he wouldn’t be replying to him. He couldn’t talk to help him, and he couldn’t offer any kind of physical comfort...the best he could do for the moment, was give him distance. “I’ll...go get that book for you now...I’ll be back soon…Okay?” Steve let out a guilty breath, and then turned, and walked away, reluctance dragging at his every step.

_What had he even done?_

At the sound of Steve’s retreating footsteps, the Soldier suddenly felt all the restraint he had suddenly suck out of his chest like a vacuum, leaving him empty except for fear, and confusion, and hurt. His head was spinning. The voices were chattering in his head, overlapping into an unintelligible, mind-numbing buzz that turned his stomach ill, and set his teeth on edge. Images flashed through his mind. Memories of being strapped down and hurt- memories of being forced to torture, and kill. These were the memories he knew were true, and real- but there were others. Vague, smokey memories of a city, and the good-natured yelling of men by the docks. Memories of the little girl with dark hair and braids, with mud between her fingers. Memories of a laugh he instinctively knew had been his own. Steve’s words ratted through his head, puncturing the memories until pain spilled from them like blood. Until they shredded the memories to pieces, leaving them hanging in tatters around his mutilated mind.

_A bad person._

_It wasn’t his fault._

_He was used._

A raw sound- somewhere between a groan and a scream- pushed up from his throat. He doubled forward, hands clapping over his ears as his eyes squeezed closed, but the darkness only made the flashing memories stronger. _Soldiers laughing around a low campfire. A train. Icy wind. The feeling of being utterly alone._ His gut clenched and the Soldier dropped his knees, the concrete floor unkind to his skin and joints. The low bunk cracked against the wall as the Soldier grabbed it for support, metal and flesh fingers clinging to the stiff, cruel metal. He was too hot, and the light keened and pulsed brighter above him.

_His mind was tearing itself apart._

_He had to get a handle on himself._

_Steve couldn't see him like this. He couldn’t see him malfunction._

The man drew a ragged shuddering breath, Blinking hard against the harsh, white light. He was...he was where he had been for four years. _His cell_. He was...he was _James_. James swallowed, his head pounding, his eyes swimming in and out of focus. The memories had left scalding burns on his psyche that ached whenever he prodded at them.

 _Memories_...he had _memories..._

He stayed where he was, slumped against the bed frame. He had a few minutes before Steve returned, before he had to scrape his fragments together and pretend his mind hadn't suddenly collapsed in on itself. He was exhausted. James closed his eyes against the light, and an unauthorized moan of pain slipping his lips. He hurt all over, body, and mind; his emotions twisted up into a throbbing, tense knot in his gut. Somehow, Steve had coaxed words out of him, and given him words in return, but the words had brought on an onslaught of confusion, and fear, and pain. He was sure he'd remembered things before, but every time he had, Hydra had hurt him. They'd strapped him down and scoured his mind with electricity, turning his world white with agony. Over, and over, every time, until James had begun blocking the memories out on his own; barricading them in a little room in his mind where they couldn't hurt him for them. And now, Steve had scratched that barrier, and let just a _trickle_ through. _What would happen if he broke it?_ James shuddered.

If Steve broke the wall, he was sure he'd break along with it.

Still feeling raw, and sick, James managed to lift his body up off the floor, heaving the shaking, numb mass of muscle, and bone onto the stiff cot. He collapsed with a ragged sigh, exhausted. _Spent._ The violent, emotional upheaval had drained his body of energy. It had stolen his appetite, and weighed his eyelids. He felt like sleeping for a week, but the omnipresent vigilance and anxiety still stirred inside him, snatching away his ability to rest. He lay on the cot, dragging in steadying breaths until the sound of Steve’s returning footsteps carried to his ears.

They were slow, tentative. James unconsciously monitored the pace of his breath, which was even, and purposeful. Overcompensating for the unpleasant emotions his display of weakness may have caused him. It wasn’t pretty to see someone’s mind turn on itself. He just hoped that this flaw in his design wouldn’t be cause for punishment.

James blinked, still feeling like he’d been stripped open, and hollowed out, but instinct drove him to maneuver his aching body into a more defendable position. Now would be the _worst_ time for his handler to turn on him, but after so long of the life he’d lived, James was used to the worst. He pushed himself to his feet, standing with his back to the wall, out of Steve’s view were he to look through the slot. He didn’t want him to see the vulnerable state of his body and mind.  

The slot slid quietly open, and for a long moment, James was greeted by heavy, nervous silence.

Steve stood outside, his mouth dry, book tucked in one hand. He felt uncertain, and guilty, wishing he could understand why a few simple words in reference to a person who didn’t even exists had seemingly shaken his charge to his core. He wanted to wipe away all the hurt and fear that had flashed through his eyes. He wanted to apologize for it, and make it go away. He wanted to undo the damage he’d done. _God-_ he was supposed to be the one person who _didn’t_ hurt James. _How had this happened?_

The guard swallowed hard, fingers flexing cautiously on the book. “James, I- are you alright in there?” His voice sounded small. There was no authority behind it; a dangerous move, but a necessary one. For the moment, Steve let himself forgot about being James’s guard. Silence coiled and spilled heavily out through the slot. The air reeked of sweat, and fear, and Steve choked back the knot of guilt in his throat. Whatever he’d done, it had made James afraid... _very_ afraid, and that had been something Steve had hoped to avoid with _everything_ in him.

“Listen…” He tried softly, his fingers trailing over the door, simulating the touch he’d so like to offer James. “I’m sorry...Something I said upset you, and I don’t know what it was, but _I’m sorry_ …” He eased in, his forehead resting against the door, palm flat against the neutral, unfeeling metal. “I didn’t mean to scare you...James...I promise I’m not gonna hurt you…”

Slowly, the prisoner allowed his body to draw away from the wall, moving in towards the door. His lips twitched, words forming just behind his closed throat, but not coming out. Something in him _desperately_ wanted to sooth Steve’s worry, but he couldn’t quite verbalize it. He couldn’t make Steve know that he understood. Metal fingers came in contact with the door with a muted, inorganic _click,_ James’s body easing close, feeling Steve’s energy thrumming on the other side of the six inches separating them. His throat loosened, lips shaping words again, even though his mind tried to trick him into believing he wasn’t capable of speaking them.

“I... _malfunctioned…_ It won’t happen again.”

Steve’s breath left him in a pained huff. James’s choice of words curled into Steve’s chest, and tore at his aching heart. His charge had been upset, panicked, and scared, and he...he called it a _malfunction?_ Steve had heard of Hydra- of their corruption. He knew this man had been one of their soldiers, but...had they treated him like a machine? Like a piece of equipment that was useless scrap if there was any break in performance? It’s certainly how James was acting. His voice sounded raw, and weary, but still fearing punishment. He was almost expecting Steve to hurt him for displaying emotion, and it turned Steve’s stomach with nausea.

“No- James, no...You....you were just upset...that’s _okay_...as long as you’re never take it out on me, as long as you’re not violent towards me, I’ll _never_ punish you for being upset, okay?” He pressed his forehead up against his door, letting out a ragged, pained breath. “You’re _allowed_...You’re allowed to be upset...but if you tell me what I did...I won’t ever do it again…”

Behind the door, James felt confusion jerk at his heart, yanking it around until it ached. He...he wouldn’t hurt him over nothing...He wouldn’t hurt him for malfunctioning... _Why?_ Why wouldn’t he hurt him. James compressed the confusion, crushing it out and yanking free his exhausted heart. He couldn’t wonder about that now. So far, Steve had given him _one_ case in which he might punish him; violence against a handler, and _that_ was something James was certain he could avoid. He’d contained violence against Hydra for god knows how long, and they’d actively terrorized him. Steve was as benign as handlers came...He wouldn’t be tempted to lash out against him.

Slowly, James let his right hand slide up along to door, gently curling into a loose hold over the end of the slot. He didn’t have words to tell Steve what he’d done to spark the onslaught of memories. He couldn’t tell him how to avoid doing it again, but he slowly took in a breath, and forced his lips to conform to words of a different sort.

“I’m...fine…”

Steve watched as his charge’s fingers came to rest over the edge of the slot; almost an invitation, and Steve felt his stomach explode into fluttering warmth. His mouth pulled into a careful, apologetic smile. “Okay…” He said softly, not certain he believed him, but willing to give him his privacy. He wasn’t entitled to know how James really felt in the least. “I’ll try to be more careful.” Steve murmured, his eyes dragging down to the hand rested on the edge of the slot- to the strong fingers curled loosely around the metal edge, and temptation flared up in his chest. He’d touched James only once before, a mere brush of fingers, but now, curiosity tugged his hand into cautious action.

Reaching out, Steve very slowly eased his hand down, laying his hand over his.

James's fingers tensed, and curled under the touch, and Steve was moments away from drawing back and murmuring an apology before they consciously loosened. His hand eased back, resting once more on the edge of the slot with Steve’s -warm, and strong- over top of it.

Separated by six inches of steel, the two men stared in mutual shock at the contact. James stood frozen, his body tense, eyes fixed on the hand. His heartbeat was erratic, but there was no sign of threat. Steve felt his stomach and chest fill with warmth, the air seeming to crackle with life, and energy; racing between them. But he knew he couldn’t keep the contact.

Almost abruptly, Steve lifted his hand, giving his two short, comfortable pats before drawing away.

His face was hot.

Steve turned quickly away from the door, seeing James’s hand slip back out of view, leaving him to face his completely inappropriate, and completely unauthorized feelings alone. Second glance, he’d realized how beautiful he was. Second touch had sent butterflies crowding his stomach. He tried to tell himself it was nothing- excitement at making progress with a man who deserved better than the depraved life he’d been sentenced to- Satisfaction at being trusted enough to share touch- but it _wasn’t._

Steve passed a hand over his mouth, his stomach turning into a knot. He...he _liked_ him. The feeling wasn’t satisfaction or excitement...it was _affection,_ and it was getting out of hand. _He had to stop._ He had to put the brakes on theses emotions _right now,_ and never let them out again. There was just too much at stake. And besides...why would James _ever_ return any form of feelings for a guard? They had only ever hurt, and tormented him in the past. Steve would be _lucky_ if James could ever come to trust, and be comfortable with him, but he’d never _feel_ anything for him. It wasn’t fair to Steve to let his emotions get tangled up in a man who couldn’t return them, but it was _more_ unfair to James.

 _He’d been through so much..._ Steve had seen the way he reacted to threats, or even the _potential_ of threats. When Steve had given him the first book, he’d been afraid that what came through the slot would be a punishment, but he’d ducked his head, and held out his hands none the less. He’d submitted himself to awful things to avoid worse punishment, and Steve knew deep down in the core of his mind that if he pursued James in any fashion, he’d treat it like everything else he did. He’d submit to Steve whether he wanted to or not, and the mere thought made Steve’s stomach churned with nausea. Just imagining him receiving his affection like a punishment made Steve want to puke. Just thinking of James feeling sick, and frightened at his touch, and still taking it with a forced, submissive smile was more than he could bear. He couldn’t...he’d _never_ do that to him...

So Steve crushed out the dangerous attraction, and forced back the heat in his cheeks. He wouldn’t let those feeling surface again…

Steve turned back to the slot, which still stood open after he’d turned away. James’s hand had disappeared back inside, and silence mocked him from beyond the door. The touch had been a mistake. Steve just had to make sure it didn’t happen again. The phantom of the shared touch hung heavy between them -the elephant in the room- but Steve chose to ignore it; instead producing the third Lord of the Rings book from his bag. He eased it silently through the slot, waiting patiently without saying a word. It was a long moment before James noticed. His back might have been to the door, he may have been lost in thought, or internalizing panic at the touch he’d allowed Steve to subject him to. Either way, it couldn’t be good, and the sick guilt clawed further up his throat. Finally, the weight of the book eased, as James took it the rest of the way into his cell. Without so much as a word, or a request, the 'Two Towers' was pushed obediently through the slot, and Steve took it back into his quivering hands.

His lips parted, mouth dry. He wanted _so badly_ to say something to him; to take back the horrible mistake he’d made in inflicting touch on James when he couldn’t _possibly_ have wanted it. But the words got caught up in his throat and refused to break free, and Steve helplessly closed his mouth.

Misery tugged at his body as Steve back away from the door, the offence blossoming in his mind from an honest mistake, to a horrible breach of consent. And for James, it may well be. He was delicate, and hypersensitive. He’d been hurt too much, and his body had been violated in more ways than Steve cared to think of. A light touch to Steve could be a crippling blow to James. His skin crawled sympathetically, his hand twitching at his side, and Steve swallowed back the knot in his throat. No more touching. Because Steve would rather cut of his own offending hand than do any more damage to the broken, abused man under his care.

Inside the cell, James found himself sitting on the floor with his back to the wall; his feet curled up underneath him. His right hand caught the light in front of him, cupped gently in the palm of his metal left. He knew it was all a trick of his mind, but it felt... _warm_...Not warm like his cell. That was a stifling, relentless heat that made James want to crawl out of his own skin. This was was different, like the soft, delicate flutter of a beating heart. It was warm like a sun he wasn’t sure he could remember; like gentle words, and a smile that reached all the way to soft blue eyes. He guided it up gently, pressing his cheek against the back of his hand, his eyelids fluttering closed.

 _So this was what touch was._ It was soft, and warm, and a little bit shy and awkward. It grazed tenderly over a hand that had only ever hurt and killed, and left it feeling just a tiny bit cleaner than it had been before. The first brush of their fingers had startled James, and he’d yanked away, but this time...this time he’d swallowed the instinct, and let himself feel. The touch had raced through his veins, from his fingers, to his heart, leaving him breathless, and wanting. Leaving him to realizing that he’d been missing something for a very long time, and the tiny, lingering touch had awaked the old need that he’d buried and repressed for so long.

James pressed closer against the back of his hand, imagining he could still feel the gentle brush of fingers over his own. He let the memory pour into the cracks in his soul, but it left him feeling hollow inside. The soft, fluttering warmth was fading, leaving James feeling suddenly restless, and starved…

_And Steve had left without a word._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why the end notes from the first chapter keeps showing up on the current chapter, but I'm working on finding a way around it, so sorry about that minor annoyance. I hope you guys are all like this story so far, and as always, I can't wait to here your thoughts, and feelings. <3


	4. Memory

His gentle handler had turned suddenly cold, and James couldn’t understand why.

He’d said he’d never punish him for being upset...he’d touched his hand with such warmth, and tenderness it had made his scarred soul ache. But between the moment Steve’s hand had rested over his own, and the moment he’d pulled away, James must have committed some horrible offense, because after that, nothing was the same.

_What had he done wrong?_

Steve’s warmth, and gentle, coxing words had turned as barren as winter. He wasn’t harsh- _god no_ \- he was never _harsh_ with him, but their soft exchanges of words had frozen up, and Steve no longer idling chatted to him through the door. He didn’t touch him again, and James felt his heart starting to itch and claw inside his ribcage for need of it. Until Steve, he’d forgotten kind touch entirely, and now after that; after that one, soft moment, the memory had come flooding back, and he found himself suddenly hungering for more. As Steve passed books in and out through the food slot, James would give, and receive them with the spine of the book pressed tight against his palms, his fingers stretched across the cover as far as they would go in hopes that Steve’s fingers would brush his. But Steve took the books with extraordinary care, and never once touched him.

In the world outside the thick steel walls, Steve hadn’t been able to forgive himself. The man under his care was so _hurt,_ so damaged, and abused, and he hadn’t even _thought_ to ask him for permission to touch him. He’d grabbed his hand, probably turned his charge’s stomach sick with fear. James expected punishment at every turn, everything new was suspect...and Steve had just _grabbed_ him.

 _God-_ he’d tried so hard to help him, and now _he_ was the one to tear that progress down…

The sound of James’s soft tap against the food slot shook Steve from his haze of guilt, and the guard turned sharply. The tapping went patiently silent, and Steve swallowed hard, letting out a low breath as he cautiously unlatched the slot, pulling it back. His lips parted, mouth starting to form a tentative word of greeting before he bit it back. _James didn’t want him to talk to him_. As the slot opened though, his charge’s fingers curled over the slot’s edge. He’d been doing that a lot recently, and to Steve it made little sense. James was so jumpy... _why would he trust his hand were his guard could touch it again?_

After a long second of silence, the hand slid back, and the spine of ‘ _Peter Pan_ ’ pushed through, held in his prisoner’s splayed fingers. Steve carefully took it, dodging anywhere where flesh might touch flesh, lifting the book from James’s hand before it curled back around the edge of the slot, blocking the track. The door couldn’t close yet, which meant James needed something more.

Behind the heavy steel, James turned his words over in his mind. Since Steve had turned cold, he hadn’t dared speak to him, afraid of worsening whatever damage he’d caused. Afraid of driving Steve to punish him. But today, a memory had surfaced out of the tangled mess of his haunted mind, and it was the first one that hadn’t left him shaking, and sick on the cell floor. It was innocent. _Harmless._ Maybe the freedom of the books he’d been given had stirred it, but an image had floated lazily to the surface of his mind. Two flesh hands turning the pages of a book by a sunlit window. The right hand belonged to him. The left hand, made also of flesh and bone was a stranger. But the book felt new, and crisp, and _exciting,_ and the ink on the page bloomed out of the murk of his memories.

“Steve-” He started haltingly, “Would you...Would you bring me ‘ _For Whom the Bell Tolls_ ’ next?...”

At the sound of his voice, Steve felt his guilt give way to layers of surprise. For one, he was talking, and talking to _him._ For another, requests were still uncommon. What was even _more_ uncommon though, was _specifics._ James never referenced anything specific, at all. He never once seemed to recognize popular, or even classic literature. He never referenced dates, or names, or places. Everything was vague, and abstract, but now, he’d given him a very specific book, and Steve felt curiosity overriding the careful walls he’d built to keep James safe from his growing affection. “Yeah,” Steve said softly, before he rested his hand lightly on the door, eyes lingering on the sliver of James’s hand that was still visible through the slot. “Just...out of curiosity- you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but- Why ‘ _For Whom the Bell Tolls_ ’?”

The sound of Steve’s voice felt like cold water on a burn, and James let his hand rest more fully on the slot again, his eyes growing distant. “I...remember reading it when it came out…” That was all, there was no more reason, and no more memory to back it up. All he remembered was seeing the book in his hands, and knowing somewhere inside him that it was new, and exciting, and unexplored. Like at some point in his life that had been the most thrilling part of his week…

Steve blinked, his mouth opening just slightly before closing it again as confusion flickered across his face. A moment later, he tucked it away. The statement didn’t make sense. ‘ _For Whom the Bell Tolls_ ’ was published in 1940. James _couldn’t_ have read it when it had first been released. But he’d been in solitary confinement a long time, and it hurt Steve deep in his chest to think of what that must have done to his mind. Steve knew very little of who this man actually was, but he’d been through more that Steve liked to imagine...he could forgive him a few mixed up dates.

“You read it before?” Steve asked instead, letting his rigid guard ease just slightly. James had offered him more than he usually did in terms of words today, and Steve began to hope that maybe he’d begun to forgive him for his breach of his consent.

James nodded behind the door, his flesh and blood hand flexing on the slot. “Yeah…” He said softly, unable to offer him any more. He didn’t remember it. He didn’t know what the story was about, and he couldn’t even call to mind who wrote it, but he knew he’d read it...once...a very long time ago...when he’d been someone else _entirely._

The tentative conversation trickled off into silence, and James shifted his hand away, letting Steve close him up as he left to retrieve the book.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Steve left his charge in silence for the next few days, still tenderly toeing around how much he could allow himself. He _wanted_ to talk to James. He so desperately wanted him to believe he could trust him, and come to him with his needs, but Steve had to know how much he was allowed when such casual interactions stirred at the ill-fated feelings in his chest. He wasn’t allowed touch. That simply had to be off limits. Their short, stilted conversation the other day had tugged at the strings of Steve’s heart, but he thought...just _maybe_ he could keep talking to him, and still keep his emotions under guard. He was allowed to talk to him, and care for him as his guard. He just wasn’t allowed to _touch._

And he wasn’t allowed to _like_ him.

Steve sat against the door of James’s cell, pocketing his phone as he listened to the pages turning beyond the steel. He’d left the slot open in case he needed anything, but also to let a little fresh air into the cell. The tiny, bolted grate on the ceiling was _hardly_ enough, that was probably most of the reason it was so fucking _hot_ in there all the time. Turning his head cautiously, Steve let his eyes drift through the slot, taking in the peek he could get of it’s interior. He could see white, and metal, and just a _glimpse_ of his charge’s foot. James was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a peak of the edge of the book occasionally drifting into Steve’s line of sight.

Nearly three months had passed now since Steve had been assigned to James’s detail, and since that day, one question had hovered in the back of his mind. It had been background noise. Easy to ignore, but never quite gone. And now, Steve prayed he wasn’t pushing his boundaries in finally asking. “James?” He called softly, and listened as one page fluttered before the book fell closed. James had stopped flinching when he addressed him. Steve was glad. “I...I have a question, if you don’t mind.”

Almost immediately, James's hand curled back over the slot, stirring a second curiosity, and an even _deeper_ temptation in Steve. But he bit both back, cautiously taking James’s approach as permission to continue. He didn’t have to answer, but Steve at least felt safe asking. “In all your records and files, you’re not listed under a real name, just aliases, and numbers…” Steve pinched his lips together, vaguely remember his indignance at his superior assuming he would address his prisoner by a number. Names were important to Steve. So why hadn’t James been given the dignity of one? “I guess what I’d really like to ask is...why don’t you tell anyone your name?” Because of course Steve couldn’t think he was special. James was probably just another alias. Just another vague title to refer to a shadowy being by. “There was so much legality to deal with, I’m sure you were asked... _why don’t you tell anyone?”_

James had gone still behind the door, but it was unlike any other time. He didn’t seem upset, or shocked into sick, frozen silence as he had once. He seemed... _indecisive_...maybe a little bit uncomfortable- no...almost _ashamed,_ and Steve felt his stomach begin to knot. Very slowly, Steve eased from his chair, kneeling down at eye level with the slot, drinking in the sight of his charge. _”James?”_ He pressed softly, and James shifted restlessly, his brow knotting as his lips twitched wordlessly. There were words tumbling around in his mind, but none of them reached his lips. He didn’t want Steve to see him malfunction...he didn’t want him to see how broken he really was, because maybe he treated him the way he did because he _really_ believed he deserved it...but mindless weapons didn’t deserve this kind of patience, and understanding, and admitting to this would show Steve that he was just that…He liked the way Steve treated him- _spoke_ to him- even if it confused him sometimes. He didn’t want it to stop...But the words had come to the front of his mouth, balancing on his tongue as they tettered between confession, and unspoken silence; now begging to be spoken. James swallowed hard.

He would tell Steve, and he would accept however this changed his behavior towards him.

But-

Just _maybe-_

_He could feel the warmth of that touch one more time before it was stripped from him for good._

Slowly, James shifted his hold on the slot, and haltingly turned his palm face up, his fingers pleadingly outstretched. It was a blatant request. He just wanted gentle touch one more time.

Steve saw the movement, and felt his stomach twist, and his heart flutter against his will. James’s hand was open to him, craning for touch, and indecision suddenly flared inside Steve’s gut. He’d said he wouldn’t. For the sake of his own tangled emotions, and for James, but...he was _asking_ him. Steve’s question _clearly_ wasn’t an easy one, and his charge was seeking support, and trusting Steve enough to find it in him...He _trusted_ him...and suddenly, Steve couldn’t heed the warnings he’d made for himself.

His hand lifted cautiously, hovering over James’s, and he wet his mouth nervously, his lungs oddly tight, like they used to get when he was a kid. “Should I…” He faltered, still unable to shake the guilt that had been gnawing at him since his last breech of his prisoner’s personal space. He had to be sure.

His charge's hand stretched closer, the muscles taunt with need, and Steve very cautiously took the bait. He eased his hand down, and laid it softly- palm to palm over James’s.

The moment he did, something shifted inside his charge, and the ragged need bled out, giving way to relief, and as James's fingers curled just a tiny bit around his hand, Steve heard the low huff of air- like he’d been holding his breath since the last moment they’d touched. Steve blinked, surprised at the reaction- surprised at the lack of fear, and tension in his charge’s body. He let his hand slowly conform to his, his heart in his throat, eyes wide.

 _He was holding his hand_ , very loosely- very _carefully_ through the three inch high slot in the door- but he was holding his hand...and James had _asked_ him to.

Inside the cell, James closed his eyes, warmth racing from his hand, up his arm, and through his chest to his rapidly beating heart. The touch spilled into his anguished soul, and soothed some of the ragged ache inside him. He prayed Steve wouldn’t move, because he was so _desperately_ starved for the touch, and the humane treatment, that he felt he might break if it was removed from him again. But Steve had asked him a question, and the warmth of Steve’s hand in his was the price James had asked for his answer. He owed Steve now.

The prisoner leaned forward until his forehead rested against the door, the awkward reach through the slot making his arm prickle with numbness, but he didn’t dare move for fear that Steve would draw away. _Why didn’t he tell anyone his name_. Of course he’d been asked. It had been demanded of him with violence as well, but he could answer the question no more under force than he could under diplomatic persistence. Everyone got the same answer, no matter who asked.

_“I don’t know…”_

After the long, heavy seconds of silence, the reply nearly startled Steve. He’d honestly almost forgotten he’d asked. He’d been so distracted, and absorbed by the sight of James’s hand in his own that he’d gotten lost. His mind had captured, and replayed the ragged huff of relief, and _dared_ to spin it into a theory that maybe James _actually wanted_ this. It was hopeful, and idealistic, and Steve reasoned he was probably just looking for an excuse to touch him to sooth his _own_ emotional entanglement...but his hand was relaxed in his...and he hadn’t moved to pull away.. _.maybe he wanted this after all…_

But his words were more pressing, and Steve looked up, most of his view through the slot blocked by his charge’s wrist. He offered James a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay…” He said softly, daring to rub his thumb softly over his. “It’s been a long time since your trial...I don’t blame you for not remembering details…”

_“No-”_

The word escaped him in a short bark, and James’s fingers flexed just slightly in Steve’s, almost afraid that the short objection was overstepping a boundary. But all he saw was a flash of concerned blue eyes, and he swallowed back the little knot of fear. His tongue slid out, running slowly along his chapped lips, his brow drawing together as he chose his words. “No…” He repeated carefully, “I- I don’t remember…I don’t...remember who I am...or _anything...I_ _don’t remember anything…”_

The final four words broke off into a hoarse whisper, and Steve felt horror and realization suddenly spill through him like ice water; shocking his system as his fingers unconsciously tightened on his. He couldn’t mean- _“Nothing?”_ Steve managed tightly, his eyes fixed wide on the tiny sliver of James he could see. “James you don’t...you don’t remember _anything_ at all?”

Inside, his prisoner granted him a tiny, stiff shake of his head, his eyes turning away in a sudden flash of shame, and the horror inside Steve spread to his head, making him feel dizzy, and vaguely sick. The broken, _beautiful_ man whose hand rested so trustingly in his didn’t even know who he _was_...No wonder he never spoke in specifics. His life was a slate that was blank of everything except fear, and pain, and imprisonment. He’d never known a life outside a cell, and he had no memory whatsoever of the things that had put him there.

Steve couldn’t wrap his head around it. This man barely knew why he’d even been sentenced to this life of isolation and brutality. He didn’t know what he’d done- _did he?_ Steve let out a shaky breath, the answer to his cautious, but innocent question so much darker, and more painful that he could have ever anticipated. “So- You don’t remember all the things you did?” He asked, his eyes fixed with shock, and James flinched. His hand moved to quickly tug out of Steve, and realization suddenly flashed through the guard’s body. _“Wait!”_ He blurted, his hand catching James’s fingers desperately, and the prisoner froze, a slight tremor running through the hand. Steve wet his lips shakily, blinking hard. ‘ _Wait_...I didn’t mean it like that...I’m not accusing you, I just...You don’t remember why they put you here at all?”

James let his hand be drawn back into Steve’s gentle hold, the guilt that had raced through his body at the words dissipating. Haltingly, he formulated his reply. “They talk about everything...in the trail...They accused me...and...I have…” He pinched his lips tightly together, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief second before continuing. “I have memories… or- pieces of memories...as far back as being apprehended, but before that...it just fades...like I was _no one_ before that…”

_Steve felt nauseous._

In James’s mind, he’d been born into captivity. He was no one before a prisoner, someone to be treated like a vicious animal that couldn’t quite be put down. He had no life before all of this- no path of bad choices that had led to him being a killer the way everyone expected. The man in his cell was as much a stranger to the violent, masked assassin as Steve was. And suddenly, Steve was less and less sure James deserved to be here...

James felt the raw scratched at the inside of his mind grow in intensity; painful, fragmented memories trying to rake their way to the surface. It wasn’t the whole truth to tell Steve he remembered nothing. He _did_ have a few fragments, but most of them were so disjointed, and violent they would be of little help anyways. They didn’t tell him who he was. Just reminded him that someone else had been scraped out of his body to make room for the tortured, twisted _thing_ that James called his soul. He tried to block the memories out. They weren’t what he needed. They only ever hurt him. Instead, he focused on the strong, steady warmth of Steve’s hand, which had been wrapped around his for several long minutes now without even the suggestion on threat, or punishment. It was strange, yet healing. He was being touched by another human being, and he wasn’t being _hurt._

But Steve's hand had gone suddenly frozen, and stiff, and James buckled awkwardly at the knee, still desperately holding to the touch for as long as Steve would gift him with it. His steel gray eyes glimpsed out through the slot, and the expression on Steve’s face made his heart lurch in his chest. He looked shocked, and sick; his eyes had glazed over, his mind far away as he held to his charge’s hand. Cautiously, James gave a tiny tug, and his guard blinked, pain lancing through his eyes.

_“You don’t know who you are…”_

The raw hurt in his caretaker’s voice took James aback, and he blinked slowly, dropping his gaze away. His mouth felt strange from speaking so much, but it was getting easier. “No…”

“So James is...just another alias?”

Behind the door, he shifted restlessly, trying to put into words the way the name resounded with his soul. “I-” He faltered, his brow drawing into a knot. “I think...James is right...I’m not sure, but...it _feels_ right…”

Steve nodded heavily, his eyes growing distant again, and James felt his heart knot as his fingers slipped numbly from his. His arm was numb, and prickling from the odd angle. It was going to start aching, but James didn’t care. Already his starved soul craved more of the touch. But Steve’s mind had gone somewhere else entirely, somewhere dark, and confused, and hurt; a place James knew well, but...Steve wasn’t hurting for himself...he was hurting for _him…_

 _“This isn’t right…”_ It was the first words that had slipped Steve’s lips in several long minutes since he’d released his hand. His eyes were still unfocused, but a knot had appeared between his brows, his mouth tight. When he spoke again, James wasn’t sure weather the words were meant for him, or for Steve. “I read all your documents before I was assigned to your detail…” Steve said in a low tone. _“Everything_ out there on you, I read... _nothing_ mentioned memory loss...no one tried for an insanity plea...It’s-” He shook his head numbly. “This isn’t right…”

Abruptly, his eyes cleared, and snapped up, meeting James’s through the slot. _“James-_ information like this could help you. In the right hands it could reduce your sentence- If you really have no memory they can’t hold you exclusively responsible-”

As suddenly as the words had escaped his mouth, his charge’s eyes flashed, and he disappeared from view, moving quickly into the corner of his cell and out of Steve’s sight. And instantly, Steve bit his words back. _Too much._ Too much all at once. He’d overwhelmed him. Steve swallowed back anything else he wanted to say, letting it twist and writhe inside him. The injustice was eating him alive. Life without parole, especially under conditions like these was an inhuman sentence. This information wouldn’t free him, but what it _could_ do, was shave a few years off...James could have the last few years of his life to live in peace, and freedom, instead of dying in a cage like a rabid animal...Steve wanted that for him...it was the _least_ he deserved…

But he couldn’t push too hard.

James was still too raw, and he need to take everything in pace.

Slowly, Steve lifted himself off his knees, his bones cracking in protest as he eased down on his chair, casting pained glances at the open slot. So far, he hadn’t heard any movement, or sound from the other side. But he’d wait. James would come back around, and when he did, Steve would be here for him.

“Why are you doing this?”

The raw, rasped question startled Steve from his thoughts. He hadn’t expected him to speak again so soon. He was still hidden from Steve’s view, but his voice had reached him; soft, and pained as it was. Carefully, Steve turned back to face the door, his throat tightening as he tried to think of the words to convince James that he believed him to be deserving of more than this. _“Because…”_ He started halting, trailing his fingers over the edge of his tiny window into James’s world. “I don’t...I don’t believe in unjust punishment, and you’ve seen too much of that already...It’s not fair, and it’s not right, and I can’t stand to see anyone mistreated... _especially_ not those under my care…”

Steve listened to the silence on the other side of the door; the weighted hesitance, and felt his chest tighten with pity. He wanted to fix this. And slowly, Steve slid his hand through the slot, and turned it with his palm up, and his fingers outstretched.

James’s eyes widened with a flush of surprise as Steve reached into his unchanging, closed world in a way he never had before. It had always been James clawing for some, tiny taste of the vast, unknown space beyond his cell, but now, Steve was coming to him, meeting him halfway, and bringing himself into his world. The invitation was undeniable, and slowly, James accepted. He eased cautiously out of the corner of the cell, and reached out his flesh and blood hand, not trusting himself yet to touch Steve with the metal left. Slowly, his fingers uncurled, and he laid his hand in Steve, a thrill running up his spine as his guard- _no-_ his _caretaker_ gently closed it in his own.

James stood almost against the door, listening to Steve’s breathing outside...and holding his hand...Steve mirrored his position, unable to see him, but able to feel the warmth that raced through his fingers; mimicking the rapid beating of his heart. His walls and precautions were gone, because something far more important had taken their place. James was under his protection, and now Steve had to do his job, even if it wasn’t the way others decided it should be done. He would protect James, and fight for what he deserved, even if it was only in tiny fragments at a time.

Steve offered James a tiny little squeeze of his hand, unconsciously conveying the warmth and affection that was blooming in his heart. “I’m gonna help you…” He promised softly, his thumb wandering over his to intimately stroke the skin over his knuckles, and as James mimicked the motion a shiver spilled down his spine. “I’m gonna get you the treatment you deserve here, and if you’ll let me...I can try to get someone to look into you case...They can’t just ignore that what happened was without your knowledge. _Someone_ will help, and if no one else... _I_ will.” Steve’s heart squeezed with suppressed emotion, and he choked back the desire to kneel down and draw James’s hand close enough to softly kiss his chapped knuckles. But that was beyond what he was allowed, although what he was _allowed_  was blurring with what he was _doing anyways_ with every tender stroke of his thumb over the back of James’s hand.

His resolve was wavering, and it was only going to bring trouble.

But how could it be trouble when James didn’t seemed to want to pull away from his hand? When he willingly received, and even seemed to _hunger_ for kind touch? This was _helping_ him...it was helping James, even if it filled Steve’s heart with so much ill-fated emotion he thought he’d break.

“James?” He murmured softly, and felt James’s hand reposition slightly in his, his charge’s thumb tracing clumsily along the back of Steve’s hand. It felt like he’d never given affection before, but even the faltering attempt made Steve’s heart turn over in his chest.

“Yeah?” He responded, the single word hushed; the moment of raw, tender touch seeming to demand his reverence.

“If you remember something...would you think about telling me? I think I can help you…”He heard James swallow, and then let out a breath, his thumb stilling on the back of his hand.

“Are you _telling_ me to?”

“ _No_...your memories are _yours._ I’ll never _make_ you tell me...But if you do choose to tell me, I might be able to use it to help you…”

Cautiously, James gave his hand a little squeeze, and he heard the shift of his over-long hair across his shoulder as he nodded; just once, just shortly. “Okay...I’ll...I’ll think about it…”

Steve returned the little squeeze, and for what felt like the first time in a long while, he let himself really, truly smile. It was small, and gentle, but warm, and full of a growing love that James couldn’t see. “Okay…” He murmured softly, before gently releasing his hand. And the warmth inside his aching chest only grew as James’s fingers lingered around his for a long moment after he’d let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear any thoughts, comments, or ideas! See you next Wednesday!


	5. Restraint

“Sir, at least _look_ at my case-”

“I told you shortly after you were assigned, and I told you three weeks ago, do you remember what I told you then?”

“Yes, but _Sir-”_

"Than you already know my answer." The Warden's eyes bored out at Steve from across the desk. His hands were folded diplomatically, but there was a dangerous tension in them that Steve couldn’t miss. He was treading on very thin eggshells here, and one truly wrong word could cost him his position, and cost James the only friend he had. His superior shifted forward in his seat, his eyes laced with warning. “I will not be granting 088074 yard time. His violence record since he arrived here alone is enough for me to deny this request,” His gaze flickered threateningly. _“Again.”_

Steve took in a level breath, withdrawing a thick folder from his satchel, and laying it on his Superior’s desk. “If you’ll forgive my persistence, Sir, I’ve compiled evidence against my charge’s violence record. If you’ll just look at it-”

Abruptly, the Warden flipped open a separate file, his gaze snapping challengingly to Steve. “Seventh of May, 2013, your charge lashed out at his current guard through the open slot of his door, reaching for him and attempting violence.”

Instantly, Steve’s response rolled to the front of his mouth. He’d been compiling this case since the day James had trusted him with the knowledge that he remembered nothing of his past life. He knew the evidence inside out, and he was willing to use it to fight for James’s rights. “Starting on the 30th of April, _eight days_ prior to the incident, his current guard had been withholding his food from him, and taunting him with it. He was reaching for the food he’d been deprived of for over a _week._ He was _hungry,_ sir-”

 _“Third of December, 2014,”_ The Warden cut him off, continuing to page through the violence record on his desk. “088074 was reported to have screamed abuse at guards, and persistently slammed on his door, displaying clearly unbalanced, and volatile behavior.”

“He’d been pepper sprayed through the slot for not returning his food tray quickly enough, the ventilation in his cell in _horrendous,_ Sir. He was in pain, and he was yelling for _help._ This was before the surveillance camera was removed from his cell. Now, _coincidentally,_ the video footage surrounding the incident has disappeared, but the audio file was still buried in the records. He’s not threatening violence, Sir, he’s begging for help.” Steve set his jaw, burying the swell of pain, and injustice that boiled up inside his chest, biting back before it could damage his case. He continued, his teeth tight. “If that’s not enough, I’ve documented various instances were past faculty have left physical scarring on his body, and he didn’t fight back. He’d _not_ violent, Sir. Please, Just...Just grant me this. Let me give him one hour of yard time a day. I’ve looked into every instance of supposed violence, and all of them are unfounded, he doesn’t need to be isolated and terrorized. I’m not saying he should be relocated to the communal branch, but, a little fresh air, a chance to stretch his damn legs for the first time in four years- He’s been nothing less than a compliant prisoner, sir... _Please_.”

Reaching deliberately across the desk, the Warden took the file Steve had slaved over for the past three weeks, rifling through it with a critical eye. Steve couldn’t tell if he believed him or not. He’d asked so much on James’s behalf already he was beginning to wonder if his superior thought him more trouble than he was worth. Eventually, he was either going to get turned down for good, or sacked. Either way, Steve’s ability to make James more comfortable would be cut out from under his feet. Even if he could just get this one more thing…

The file close with a snap, and Steve almost jumped in his seat, his eyes flashing up. His superior looked aggravated, and chaffed, yet resigned, and Steve felt a tug of premature hope flutter in his chest.

“He gets forty five minutes, once a week. And if I find out you’ve shirked even _one_ of the procedure guidelines for high risk prisoners, I swear to God I will sack you, blacklist your name for every criminal justice facility on the goddamn planet, and lock that deranged murderer in the smallest cube we have and leaving him there to rot.”

Steve almost lost it.

Threatening his position was one thing, but _not_ James. He couldn't threaten to do more to him than he already had, not after Steve had fought so hard to give him some kind of voice and dignity. But he couldn't lash out at his superior for the same reason his charge couldn't. James would suffer for it...and that was an effect of his actions that Steve couldn't face. So all he allowed himself was a stiff nod.

"Thank you sir." He said; level, and formal, not quite meeting his eyes. Silently, Steve raised himself to his feet, and left the room, balancing his small victory with the anger at his superiors nerve to threaten more harm to a man this system had stripped to the bone already. It was no hour a day, but forty five minutes a week was still fourth five minutes more time outside his cell than James had had for the past four years.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

At the sound of his food slot opening, James almost jumped. But it wasn't a raw, startle flinch like in times past. It was the kind of jump that made his heart flip over strangely in his chest, and his hands tingle in anticipation of tender, warm contact; the safe kind that had only ever come from Steve's hands. He moved to the door, his fingers prickling with eagerness, his heart aching for the touch, but his caretaker's hand didn't ease through the slot as he'd become accustomed to. Instead, his voice carried through, laced with something James hadn't ever quite heard before.

"Hey James, I need you to get into feeding position, alright?"

James blinked. The words register as something he should know, something he'd learned before his memory faded to darkness, but it had been so long that at first he didn't understand. And then suddenly, a hazy sensation drifted back up to the surface. The feeling of hands on his body- the feeling of air rushing in through the door- the feeling of rough concrete in his cheek. Feeding position meant he was to get on the floor and make himself totally submissive. The position meant that he was unable to attack, or defend.

It meant that Steve was coming into his cell.

James felt his stomach tighten, and twist in a memory he couldn’t place, but his body reacted instinctive. Muscle memory took over, and he knelt, lowering himself until he was face first on the rough floor, his fingers laced together over the back of his neck, his feet crossed at the ankles. Already the feeling of helplessness was spreading through his body, making him feel edgy, and sick. His door had only been open twice since his apprehension. Once for the first, and only medical examination he'd ever been given, and once more for a mandated thorough search of all cells for drugs, weapons or other contraband. The doctor had jabbed and pried at the joint of his flesh and the metal arm until he'd had to bite back screams. The guards who'd searched his cell were as  needlessly harsh as all the rest. But Steve wouldn't hurt him. Even vulnerable like this....James _prayed_ he wouldn't hurt him.

Steve watched through the slot as James placed himself on the floor, making himself immobile, and unthreatening, and slowly, Steve drew in a steadying breath. With anticipation racing through his blood, Steve unlocked the heavy steel door, and pulled it back on reluctant hinges. For the first time, he got a full, unimpeded view of his charge, of his height, and build, and of the lean, solid lines of his muscles. He got a clear look at the shape of his muscled calves, and thighs, and of the strong, smooth lines of his hardened arms. Steve wet his mouth, ignoring the curl of heat inside him, and stepped slowly into James's world, watching, almost hypnotized at the way his back rose and fell with every breath- the way his metal and flesh fingers shifted against one another as he held them laced over the back of his neck. But besides a few tiny little shifts, James was still, and quiet. His eyes were even closed...a monumental show of trust that Steve could have just as easily missed.

James dragged in a deep breath as cool, fresh air spilled into his cell, tempting him with the scent of openness, and freedom, but he kept still. The door scraped softly, and then closed again, blocking the crisp cool air of the outside once more. A part of him almost resented Steve for closing it, but then again, there was only so much he could expect. If he were the kind to bolt, a guard would have a significant advantage if he had to stop and pull open the door once more. So James made himself forget the deceitful freedom in the air, and focused instead on what had come into his world. He heard Steve’s foot falls, moving closer, and closer; slowly, as though to not startle him. His breathing was irregular.

Steve eased down onto his knees, kneeling beside the prone figure on the concrete floor. He focused on steadying his breathing, and giving James a long moment, not speaking, and not touching him. He wanted James to have the opportunity to adjust to simply his presence and proximity. This was the closest he’d been to another human being in a long time.

After a moment, Steve let a tentative smile pull at the corners of his mouth. By rights, he should have started securing James the moment he stepped in, but he couldn’t stand the thought of shackling him until he understood why. "James, I got you a little yard time..." He said softly, and suddenly, James’s chest expanded as he drew a sharp breath on the floor beside him, his hands moving to slid from the based his neck. But suddenly, he remembered the stillness that was required of him, and he let out the breath, his eyes sliding open.

Slowly, so he gave his caretaker no reason to doubt his compliance, James turned his head. He kept the movement careful, and controlled, easing to the side until his cheek lay flat on the concrete, and his deep, steel blue eyes could turn up to the figure kneeling over him. And something inside James stuttered. He knew well Steve’s clear, sky blue eyes, and the way his lips -so soft, and pink- turned up into that kind, genuine smile, but he’d had little concept of much beyond that. His hair was so blond- like soft, spun gold- like wheat, or sunlight… His arms looked as strong, and safe as his hand felt whenever it would wrap around his, and James suddenly found himself daring to wonder what that would be like...it be encompassed- to be completely enveloped in the same sensation that ran through his fingers when Steve took his hand. James knew little of safety, and less of beauty, and gentleness, but the entirety of his limited experience was Steve. He knew nothing of those beyond him, so to James, Steve was the most gentle...the safest...the most _beautiful_ person he’d ever seen...and time and time again, he’d given him fragments of a lost life that James had never believed could belong to him again.

 _“I can go outside?”_ He whispered, his tone hoarse, and numb with disbelief. _How had this happened?_ Why did Steve keep gifting him with these blessings...these _privileges_ that everyone else had seen as above him. Why -when everyone else saw light, and fresh air, and the distraction of a good book as too good for someone like him- did Steve give them to him so freely? His broken mind couldn’t comprehend it, but his abused heart breathed a fragile, desperate sigh of thanks.

At the disbelief in James’s voice, Steve felt a soft, reassuring smile turn up at the corners of his mouth, and he reigned back the desire to softly rub his back. “If you want.” He encouraged, tipping his head in a tiny nod.

James felt his heart suddenly swell with desperate, aching hope. “Please?” He breathed, the tone laced with cautious optimism. But Steve had never been one to taunt him. He wouldn’t offer this to him only to wrench it away. And a second later, his fragile optimism was supported as Steve nodded, his eyes sparking with life, as though he too were eager to take him to the yard. He was..He was _happy_ for him, James realized, and the empathy of emotion settled a strange warmth inside him.

“Yes, _absolutely._ I- I have to follow certain procedures in taking you there, but I will, I promise.” His warm, earnest confirmation was followed on it’s heels by a flicker of uncertainty, and James felt his stomach tightening, mimicking the uncertainty on Steve’s face. “I _do_ have to restrain you before I take you out of your cell though. That was one of my requirements in getting this for you.”

James swallowed, settling the tightness in his gut. It could be a lot worse. It had been a long time since he’d needed to be restrained but...he could handle it...if only to see the sky, and breathe the fresh air.

“Alright…” He agreed in a hushed tone, and something like pride crept into Steve’s eyes.

“I’m gonna touch you now, okay? I’ll talk you through everything I’m doing. I’m not gonna surprise you.” To this, James only nodded, and braced his fragile mind for the stress of being restrained. He could handle it. He just needed to be prepared.

The minute Steve’s skin touched his though, a kind of bizarre peace flooded through him, and he let the officer take his hands, guiding them away from his neck to the middle of his back. “I’m gonna cuff your wrists.” Steve said in an undertone, just as he’d promised. “They’re standard handcuffs. No surprises, but they are fastened through the loop at the back of your jumpsuit.”

Steve watched James carefully, gauging his reaction, but so far, he remained loose, and compliant under his hands. A little smile tugged at his mouth, and he gave James a light, encouraging squeeze over his loosely curled hand. “Elbow tethers are next.” He said, sliding his hand from James’s wrist to his elbow, so he could follow the path of his work as Steve looped the strap through James’s elbows, tethering them. With his arms relaxed, James’s elbows would still rest naturally at his ribs, but the tether wouldn’t let them any further than that, limiting any way in which he could use them for violence. Not that Steve expected any for him.

“I’m gonna tether your ankles now too, okay James?” Again, James nodded, and Steve moved down the length of his body to fasten his ankles, limiting his range of motion to approximately twelve inch steps. For a less compliant prisoner, this would impede any progress were they to try and run, and also eliminated the threat of a kick. Once he was finished with his feet, Steve just let his hands rest softly on the backs of his calves, his eyes wandering up to where James was watching him out of the corner of one strained eye, his angle unsuited to seeing that far down. “Still okay?” Steve asked, wanting to give him a minute before he continued.

James nodded quickly. Truthfully, he’d grown a little tense the further he was restrained- the more helpless he’d become, but Steve’s hands were warm, and soft against his ankles, gently rubbing them as though to make sure he still had proper circulation in his feet. “Yeah,” He managed, drawing in a breath and closing his eyes, trusting himself to Steve’s gentle touch. “I’m fine. Keep going. I- I _want_ to go.”

Nodding a soft confirmation, Steve moved gently from James’s feet, to his head. “Okay, last bit James, it’s just a spit guard.” James gave his wordless confirmation, and Steve noted with a slight flush of heat in his stomach that James kept his eyes lightly closed. He didn’t seem like he was blocking him out though, and Steve throat tightened as he realized the confidence in the simple gesture. James was confident that Steve wouldn’t hurt him, even as he bound, and restrained him. Reaching down, Steve softly moved his hand over James’s jaw, hovering there for a moment until he registered the near-touch. Gently, He laid his hand along the side of James’s face. His skin was rough with stubble under his palm, his bone-structure strong, and defined under the hollowed skin of his cheeks. _God- he was so beautiful..._ Steve hated to do anything to obstruct that beauty, but his superiors orders had been bitingly clear. He couldn’t cut corners, so Steve withdrew the mesh hood from his bag, and carefully guided it over James’s head.

James had been _almost_ relaxed- _almost_ lost in the feeling of Steve’s hand tenderly cupping his face, when suddenly the suffocating _thing_ came down over his head.

His eyes flashed open, his body suddenly flood with panic. Memories, like flash grenades, exploded in his mind, wreaking havoc on his psyche with images and sensations- _a menacing, mechanical whirr- metal closing down around his skull- pain- white hot, agonizing pain-_

Sudden as shattering glass James’s immobilized body lurched against Steve’s gentle hands, a raw, terrified scream ripping from his lungs, his head snapping violently from side to side, trying to get rid of the thing around his head. He rolled onto his back, hitting the legs of the metal cot with a sick crack, his spine arching as another scream was torn from his body.

 _“James!”_ The panicked shout pierced James’s eardrums like a super-heated needle, the sound of his voice alone enough to make him writhe with pain. The fear was turning him manic, his eyes wide and unseeing as he thrashed and dragged his head along the rough concrete to try and tear loose the hood.

_He was back with Hydra._

_The machine was closing in around his skull._

_Making him forget._

_Making him hurt._

Steve scrambled after James, his chest suddenly in a knot. He was _scared-_ he was _panicking,_ and Steve couldn’t let himself get hurt in the spasm of raw, manic terror, but he wanted to hurt _James_ even _less._ “Hold still. James hold still _right now_. I’m gonna help you. I’m gonna take it off, now _hold still-”_  He commanded, trying to keep the waver out of his voice, but James was too far gone to hear him. He was hitting and dragging his skull across the ground screaming in wordless panic- _God- He was gonna hurt himself._ The realization struck Steve like a rock to the back of his head, and suddenly, he knew this wasn’t going to be a contactless resolve. He needed to restrain him, and that meant touching him without the careful attention to his consent. It may break down some of the trust Steve had built up with him, but James was going to seriously injure himself if he didn’t, and _that_ was something Steve couldn’t just sit back and watch.

Steve’s mass came down on James like a bucket of lead, and the officer’s hand moved to the back of his head, his neck snapping back and _slamming_ Steve’s hand between the back of his skull and the concrete floor. Steve muffled a sharp hiss of pain behind his teeth as he grabbed James, bodily manhandling him into his arms, James’s back to his chest as he trapped his screaming, wrenching figure against him.

“James! _James!”_ He barked, grabbing at the fastening that held the mesh hood around his neck with clumsy hands, flighting with the drawstring as he tried to keep his charge from wrenching out of his grip. Suddenly, it yanked free, and Steve _threw_ the hood aside, grabbing the side of James’s face with a firm hand and turning his head towards him, his tone suddenly dropping from a command to a soothing plea. “James- Hey, hey buddy, look at me-” He breathed, his charge still squirming against him. “Come on buddy, look here- _that’s it_ , look at me. It’s gone. It’s off.” His hand slid down unconsciously stroking James’s face, lifting his hand to his temple and resting his strong, warm palm against his cheek.

James let out his breath in a shuddering, catching breath, something in him coming back. His vision- formerly black with mindless terror- gave way to harsh white light, and the sight of Steve. He could feel solid, muscular arms around him, feel his warm hand caressing his face- skin to skin. The thing around his head was gone.

And suddenly, James crumbled.

He went abruptly limp, tethered hand and foot, and slumped helplessly in his guard’s arms. A shudder ran through his body, the phantom pain giving way to shame, and just a shadow of old fear. Had he lashed out? Had he broken Steve’s _one_ condition and been violent towards him? _God- please no_ \- after all this- _please_ don’t let Steve punish him. James didn’t think he could take it.

But the arms around him didn’t turn cruel. They tightened around his limp, bound figure, and wrapped him in comfort, and soothing warmth. His breath whispered through his hair, chin resting on the top of James’s head as he touched him more completely that he could ever remember being touched, and as the shadows in his mind ebbed, so did the fear. And James felt safe…

“Hey…” Steve whispered softly, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck which was beginning to knot from the trauma he’d inflicted on it; the other stayed wrapped firmly around his shivering body. “Hey buddy...Coming back? You with me, James?”

James’s hands flexed experimentally in the cuffs, and he curled his toes, consciously shifting his head as he made himself aware of his own body, and how completely it was wrapped in Steve’s. “I’m...here…” It wasn’t much but at the moment it was the best he could do. He wanted to apologize. He’d promised Steve he wouldn’t malfunction again...But the touch remained gentle, and soothing, although as James became more aware, so did Steve, and the tender, feather light stroking of his cheek ceased.

“Good…” Steve murmured, loosening his hold just slightly, before a confession slipped his lips, and little more open, and raw than he’d intended.  “You scared me…” He breathed, leaning close, his eyes skimming the back of his head for traces of blood. “James, you could have really hurt yourself…”

Words stuck in James’s throat, a fresh shudder spilling down his spine. “It...It was hurting me-”

Slowly, Steve released one arm, reaching over and slowly pulling the thin, mesh hood close. He’d called it by its common name in the prisons -a spit guard- but James’s eyes had been closed leading up to the incident. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting, and it had scared him. Slowly, he eased it up where he could see. “It’s just netting, James…” He promised quietly, crinkling, and flexing the material in his hand, one arm still wrapped around his charge’s body. “It’s just netting...feel.” He eased the mesh hood down to James’s bound hands, and the man haltingly felt the material that his guard offered him. It was soft, and porous. Easily seen through, and easily breath through. _Not a metal vice closing around his skull._

“Look,” Steve encouraged softly, letting James’s weary, spent body remain slumped up against him as he took the fabric in both hands and slid it over his own head, fastening the drawstring loosely around his throat. James could still his his soft, earnest features through the fine mesh. “A lot of times, prisoners will spit at guards, and this an easy way to solve to problem…” Steve faltered as he took it off, the demonstration of its harmlessness over. But his eyes didn’t mock his fear. Instead his hand came back to sooth over his jaw just once more. “I’m sorry it scared you...and I’m sorry I had to grab you. I could just sit there and watch you hurting yourself to get it off….”

It almost felt like Steve was going to pull away- to break the full, comforting contact that had been held for so long now, and James suddenly felt desperation course through his blood. He didn’t it to stop. Even so soon after his mind was tore apart with fear, he felt the throb of yearning human touch, and the more he felt, the more his greed grew. He’d thought Steve taking his hand as they spoke had been enough to slake the thirst in his soul. But now he was resting against Steve’s broad, solid chest, with an arm wrapped around his back, and a hand brushing over his cheek, and suddenly he knew the touch of just his hand on his own was never going to be enough again. He wanted _this._

He shifted just slightly, curling his neck and almost nuzzling into Steve’s chest, craning for the warmth of his embrace. “I- I’m sorry-” He rasped, his throat raw from screaming. “I understand if you n...if you need to punish me…”

The arm around his back tightened firmly. “What did I tell you about that?” He pressed softly, not a demand, but a quiet question.

James’s hollow features contorted with discomfort, a raw breath escaping his lungs. “If I’m violent-”

“You were _scared.”_ Steve said, his hand moving from his jaw, to under his beautifully cleft chin, and he turned James’s face up to his. _“Not_ violent. Now, if this is too much, we’ll try another day, but I’m not restricting your privileges, and I’m _not_ going to _punish_ you...We can still go to the yard if you want.”

James met Steve’s soft, earnest eyes. feeling his hand under his chin, and his arm looped around his back, and the prisoner bit down on the inside of his lips. He felt raw, and tired, and weak after the flash of violent memory, but a part of him still doubted everything. Even though Steve said they could always try another day, his scarred soul was full of distrust, and everything fiber of his being screamed for him not to pass up the -possibly _singular-_ opportunity to see outside his cell. It may never be offered again.

“I _do-”_ James managed softly, his eyes dropping, and then lifting back to Steve’s in a moment of caution. “I- I want to go... _please_ …” Steve answered him with a soft nod, and almost as he did, James’s eyes fell down to the mesh hood that now lay beside them on the concrete floor. He could feel Steve’s eyes resting on it as well, and, so close now, James could feel his caretaker’s heart rate pick up. The arm around his back loosened.

“You need to put it on me...don’t you?”

Steve swallowed, remembering his superior’s threat. His job. James’s small measure of freedom. That was what was at stake if he cut corners. Reluctantly, he nodded, not even looking at James. This was _dangerous,_ all things considered. He was closed up in a tiny cell with a man with a bloody reputation. But even bound, he was still resting _right against_ Steve’s body, and he wasn’t even _looking_ at him...and nothing in Steve even _thought_ to be wary.

“Yeah...I’m sorry. I can’t make any exceptions in the transport procedure. Orders from on high.”

James’s eyes suddenly went hollow, and soulless, his face going slack. Slowly, he eased away from Steve, keeping his balance as he sunk back into a sitting position, legs curled under him, wrists and elbows still bound together behind his back. Those chapped, red lips had drawn into a tight line, his gaze empty. And slowly, his hollow eyes turned down to the hood. “Put it on…”

Steve didn’t protest. He wanted James to be able to see the outside, and to do that, he needed to put the spit guard on him. He just prayed that, this time, James’s awareness would prevent another wave of blind, manic terror. He reached down, gently retrieving the hood, and loosening the neck, lifting it between them where James could see. “Eyes on me, alright, buddy?” Steve murmured, the nicknames sliding out thoughtlessly, and though it sounded strange to the prisoner’s ears, there was something comforting in it to. It helped him remember that Steve wouldn’t hurt him. As he lifted his gaze, Steve met it with a reassuring smile. “Okay,” He continued softly. “I’m gonna put it on now...It’s just mesh, it can’t hurt you.” Moving carefully, Steve eased the hood behind James’s head resting it half over the back of his skull before his eyes met his. “Still okay?”

James bit down harder on the insides of his lips and gave a stiff nod.

“Good…” He praised. “You’re doing good...keep your eyes on me, alright?” The material eased down over his forehead-

James felt a shiver run through his body.

_Over his eyes and nose-_

He tasted the biting, metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

The guard slid down his chin- _around his neck-_

_Oh god-_

_“Done.”_

James blinked his eyes open, unaware that he’d closed them, and saw Steve’s wide, concerned eyes through a system of fine holes in light fabric. He blinked again, feeling it brushing his lashes, and he let out a strangled huff of air. _It was over._

Steve’s face spread into a soft smile, his hands moving carefully from the fastening around his neck. “It’s on, James...You’re alright, you’re safe….” James knelt in front of him, hands clenched behind his back, eyes wide as his chest shuddered in and out in huge breaths, and suddenly, all Steve wanted to do was comfort him. His hand twitched at his side, moving up before he suddenly resigned the urge back, concern, and clarity coming back to him after the moment of tension. “Can I touch you? Your face?” He asked, those wide, shocked eyes snapping back to him. And with a tiny jerk, his charge nodded.

Steve reached out, and laid his hand along James’s jaw, the material coming to rest against his skin as he cradled the side of his face, and as James pressed into the touch, his heart flipped over in his chest. He was losing control of this, and _fast,_ and suddenly, he didn’t know weather he _wanted_ to- or was even _capable_ of stopping. James was so clearly hungry for touch, and Steve so desperately wanted to lavish him with affection. After so long...after so much pain, and physical, mental, and emotional abuse, it was the least he could do.

For the first time, the world _owed_ James someone who would treat him with the care and affection he deserved.

And Steve wanted that _someone_ to be _him._

“You did a good job…” Steve murmured, James having gone wordless from the panic, stress, and then relief. His eyes were closed now; his sunken, haunted face slack as he leaned into Steve’s touch, and Steve gently rubbed his thumb along the sharp cut of his cheekbone. “You did such a good job...and whenever you’re ready, we can go...I can take you outside.”

At the gentle temptation, James’s weary eyelids lifted, and he raised his head out of Steve’s cradling support. He felt hollow, and spent from the emotional trauma, but he was ready. He wanted this more than his body wanted rest, and he gave Steve a wordless, pleading nod.

“Now?” Steve asked softly, prepared to give James as much time as he needed to recover, but something in his hollow, empty eyes had sparked back to life, and he unconsciously eased closer on his knees. At the tiny show of exhausted eagerness, Steve’s mouth spread into a tender smile, and he gently took his charge’s arms, guiding both of them to the feet. “Alright…” He breathed, _almost_ \- god- _almost_ leaning in to kiss his temple, before aborting the action with an awkward dip of his head. Steve cleared his throat softly, easing on arm away, but keeping the other hand on James’s elbow to guide him.

With one hand now free, Steve clicked the handle of the door, and slowly pushed it open, feeling James’s breath hitch beside him as the world open up beyond his tiny little cube. His eyes went huge, his lips going slack, and Steve’s heart ached with unbearable affection, and he offered his elbow a tiny, encouraging squeeze.

“Come on, James...let’s go see the sky.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love to heard all your thoughts! Your comments really are such a huge motivator for me, so thanks you all so much! And see you next week!


	6. Yard

The walk from James’s cell to the yard seemed to take an eternity, but Steve gave James every _second_ he needed. He’d start the clock on his few precious moments of freedom once they were actually outside. James wanted to look at _everything._ Every step that took him further from his tiny little world brought something new, and different into his field of vision, and Steve just let him look. He let him pause to gaze, through the network of holes in the mesh hood, down long hallways lined with empty cells, and through the small glass windows into locked offices. As much at it hurt Steve’s heart to think, he knew James was responding to this as though it were the only time he’d be allowed. To James, after this one brief lapse in captivity, he was back to his cell for the rest of his life, and Steve knew no amount of assurance could change that base instinct.

So he let him look, and he let him drag out the minutes, because really, after all this time, James deserved every second he got.

Finally, Steve drew close to the door to the yard, one hand still holding James’s elbow, the other rested on his taser. It was for show, it was in case anyone happened to see them; nothing else. Steve never _once_ believed that James would try to hurt him, but he needed to keep up appearances for the sake of everyone involved. But as Steve reached for the handle to the door, James’s feet dragged to a stop, his elbow tugging out of Steve’s hand.

Steve startled at the sudden break of contact, but as he abruptly whipped around, the expression on James’s face was enough to cool to sharp, hot flush of adrenaline that had run through his chest. He was standing a few feet back from the door, eyes wide, breath frozen in his lungs. He was staring at the door with loaded uncertainty, and Steve turned back to him, gently reestablishing the contact as he took his elbow.

“James?” He murmured softly, letting his thumb rub tenderly against his elbow through the material of his jumpsuit once he’d glanced back to ensure no one was around. His eyes turned back to James, continuing to rub with his thumb his heart aching softly as his charge leaned hungrily into the touch. “James…what’s wrong?”

James blinked rapidly, taking in a deep, ragged breath, his eyes flickering from Steve, to the door, and those chapped, red lips parted cautiously. “I- I don’t know that I’m ready-“ He’d been in such a small, constant space for so long, and although his body _ached_ to feel the sun, and the movement of a breeze, a part of him was coiled into a sick, shivering knot of fear. _What if he couldn’t take it?_ Early in he and Steve’s interaction, even the bright blue of Steve’s eyes had made him hurt. It had made him flinch away, feeling like his retinas were burning from the sheer clarity, and saturation. In a white world, that splash of color had almost overstimulated him. What if he took one step outside that door and fell to pieces? What if Steve needed to punish him? What if someone else saw- someone far less benign, and took it on themselves to brutalized him for malfunctioning? _He couldn’t- he was scared._ He wanted so badly to see the sky, but he had no idea how it would effect his scarred, tormented mind.

The pressure on his elbow gently increased, and James lifted his haunted eyes to Steve as his caretaker squeezed his arm comfortingly. “It’ll be okay…” Steve assured him softly. “I’ll be right with you the whole time, and if it’s too much, we can go back- try again a different time. It’ll just be me and you in there, I promise. If you don’t react well, _I promise_ no one else will be around to see.” Another soft squeeze. “Just you and me…” He assured him again, and James felt a little of the knot inside him uncoil. Maybe it _would_ be too much. Maybe he _would_ fall apart. But it would be Steve who was with him if he did, and no one else. _Steve_ …who didn’t hurt him even when he thrashed and fought against a restraining device…Steve who brought him books to read, and held his hand through the slot in the door…Steve who spoke to him so softly when he was afraid, and stroked his face with strong, warm hands….

James swallowed hard. If Steve was with him…He’d be alright.

After a long, shaky moment, James nodded once, and Steve’s mouth turned up into a soft, encouraging smile, his hand moving back to the doorknob, the other still steadying his elbow. “Ready then?” He asked in an undertone, watching as James’s shoulders straightened, his eyes turning steely with determination. He was met with a sharp nod, and finally, Steve got to do what he’d wanted to do for the nearly four months he’d been guarding James. He turned the knob, and pushed open the door guiding him forward, and into the sunlight.

James’s breath caught in his throat.

The yard itself was little more than a large square with high concrete  walls, and a concrete pavement,  with the open sky blocked by a heavy, wire ceiling, but to James, the sight rivaled that of Solomon’s gardens. He took an unsteady step forward, mouth slowly going slack as his eyes turned up to the sky; dusty, and distant, and tinged with creamsicle orange For once, the universe was kind to James. The day wasn’t hot, and overly bright like his cell, or cold, and unfeeling like the ice in which his abused body had been preserved for so long. Rather, it was waning towards evening, the sun low on the horizon. It cast long, pleasantly cool shadows, and spilled beams of warm, orange light into the concrete yard, and the air smelled crisp and fresh. Sounds from beyond the prison drifted in from far away- birds, and cars, and the sound of leaves .

James blinked rapidly, breath refusing to move beyond his throat as his chin tipped back, exposing the beautiful length of his gorgeous throat as he drank in his first look at the sky in over four years. The air was cool, and soothing against his sensitive skin, and the light was kind to his abused eyes.

He’d thought the difference would make him crack, but instead, a peace he hadn’t known himself capable of feeling settled over him. This was a _gift_ …it was something purely for his enjoyment, and it didn’t hurt him… _it didn’t hurt him,_ and he wouldn’t be hurt for indulging in it. Steve had released his arm, locking the yard door behind them, and James slowly eased away from him. His tethered feet took him slowly from Steve’s side, and Steve let him go without hesitation. The yard was safe, and enclosed, and James didn't need Steve following his every move during his first taste of freedom in four years. He let go of his charge's elbow, and James wandered slowly away, his head tipped back, mouth slack as he stared upward. He blinked rapidly, his eyes half closed against the natural light, his sallow skin suddenly lit with orange and gold. The sunbeams scattered a gleam through the strands of his overlong hair, and thick, soft lashes. It glittered off the clear, steel blue of his eyes, and Steve found himself staring, watching the beautiful man in his care as he breathed in the clean air, and felt the gentle kiss of the sun. _It made his heart ache…_

James was _good_...Steve couldn’t explain how, but he _knew._ He couldn’t explain his record, or the blood on his hands, but he knew... _He was a good man_...he was _gentle,_ and _beautiful,_ and he’d been horrifically abused for longer than Steve wanted to imagine. He hated that he couldn’t do more, but this...this was a start.

Slowly, as the weight, and realization of where he was sunk in, Steve felt his heart stutter in his chest, and James’s mouth began to tug faintly. His lips were still parted, but they were no longer slack. His eyes had brightened with an aching, painful hope, and wonder, his mouth drawing back into a tiny smile as he started up at the cream and orange clouds drifting lazily overhead. He was _smiling_...James had gotten a reason to smile, and Steve had been privileged to see it.

For a long time, he just stood there, right in the middle of the yard, his head back, chest expanding to take in lungfuls of air so deep Steve was stunned he didn’t get dizzy from the rush. His muscles were slack, his hands loose against his tailbone, and his mouth came to rest in that tiny, beautiful smile that made his caretaker’s heart twist with affection. The minutes trickled by, and Steve stayed right by the closed door. If standing in the middle of the yard and staring up at the sky was how James wanted to spend his precious few minutes, Steve wouldn’t interfere. There would be other times for exercise. For now, Steve just let him soak everything in.

The sky- the sun, and clouds had become a vague myth in James’s mind; a distant concept that could never touch him in his sealed little world. But now it stretched high above him, soft, and smooth, and kind...So soothing, and unattainable, and he could imagine for a few brief minutes that it was all his… It stirred things in him...a desire smile, a feeling of relief, and awe, and safety...it gently jarred loose memories from the murk of his past.

James was learning skittishly that not _every_ memory that resurfaced would terrorize his mind, although many still did. Memories of Hydra, of missions, and killing, and the blood on his face and hands left him shaking and sick- hiding even from Steve. But there were others. There were soft memories too, and the sight of the fresh, clear sky brought them floating up inside him, leaving his fingers tingling, and his heart beating just a little faster inside his chest.

_“Steve?”_ His voice sounded so _soft_...James wasn’t used to hearing his own voice without an edge of fear, but at the moment, there was no room inside him for anxiety, though the trust Steve had begun to foster bloomed in the fresh air.

Steve lifted his head, Jame’s voice taking him off guard. It had been thirty minutes of peaceful silence, but James seemed... _relaxed_...it was good to see. Smiling faintly, Steve moved across the yard, coming up to a stop two feet from his charge. The man didn’t turn to look at him, his eyes still fixed on the sky through the fine netting of the mesh hood. “Yeah?” Steve asked quietly, relieved when James didn’t flinch. He still would sometimes- the deeply conditioned fear too invasive to chase out in a mere few months, but not today...today, for the first time, James didn’t look at all afraid. His expression was soft, and trusting, his eyes on the clouds rather than suspiciously locked on his guard.

At the sound of Steve’s quiet reply, the prisoner let out a quiet breath. The memory was undeniable. It was _true._ It was _right,_ and something in him compelled him to share it with Steve. _“James is right_ …” He said softly, very slowly letting his eyes lower from the second most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, his gaze turning gently to the first. “My name...I remember all of it now…”

Steve blinked, his breath stilling in his chest. The look in James’s eyes was like none other he’d ever seen before. Before, there been fear, and trauma, and broken submissiveness. Now, all of that wasn’t gone forever, but for the first time, there was a spark of resilience there too. He had a name. His _own_ name, not a number, or a title. He was _person,_ and Steve only hoped he was beginning to realize that he deserved to be treated as such.

“You remember your full name…” Steve said softly, his mouth turning up into a smile, and it took everything in his to resist pulling James into a warm, strong embrace. He was making so much progress...he was doing _so well…_

James’s eyes lowered, his chin dropping away, but the little smile continued to linger rebelliously on his lips, his head giving a tiny nod from within the mesh guard. The expression made Steve’s heart want to melt in his chest. James’s lips parted, before closing again, only to separate uncertainly once more. He _wanted_ to share. He’d never been seized by a desire like this- the desire to give Steve this intimate detail about himself, but he did...he wanted so badly for Steve to know his name, but his guard hadn’t asked, and he still struggled to speak when something hadn’t been demanded of him. But that little spark of resilience against his programming was fostered by the freedom of the yard, and the fragile trust Steve had built with him over the months, and James took the risk.

_“James Buchanan Barnes…”_

If Steve had least expected anything, it was for James to tell him. He’d asked him to consider sharing if he remembered something in hopes that he could use it to help him, but the words came out so soft, and unexpected, that Steve’s mind only caught the very end, his head suddenly churning to try and fill in the blanks that he’d missed.

“Wh-” He started quietly, hating that James had trusted him with his name, and Steve had missed it. “James B- Buck? _Sorry-”_ He could feel heat rushing to his face, mortification rising inside him. _How could he have missed his name?_

But James just lifted those beautiful, blue gray eyes to his, his mouth twitching just slightly. _“Buchanan, Barnes._ ” He supplied in a murmur, the name sounding more right every time he said it. And just because of that- Just because he was allowed, and he wouldn’t be hurt for speaking- he said it again. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

Steve nodded, his mind seizing the name and searing it into his memory, as he ducked his head with a grimace. “Okay,” He said softly, feeling awful for messing up his name the first time he spoke it to another person in his living memory. “I’m gonna remember that, sorry Bucky- I- I mean, _Buddy,_ I-” Steve openly grimaced in pain, realizing he’d fucked up again.

James’s eyes drifted back up to Steve, taking in the pained expression on his face, and for a moment, it didn’t make sense. It didn’t settle into a handler’s typical range of displayed emotion, unsettling him for a moment, before realization clicked in.

_Steve felt bad._ He felt _bad_ for missaying his name...James almost wanted to cry…

Had he _ever_ been treated like this? Had anyone in his life _ever_ treated him like an individual? Like his humanity was sacred, rather than an obstacle...James was used to code names, and strings of numbers. He’d been called _Soldier, it_ , that _thing...never_ a name...and now, inexplicably, there was this person in his life...this gentle, benign human who not only saw him as a person, but was actually _upset_ that he’d misspoken his name…

And suddenly, James felt something he couldn’t ever remember feeling before.

_A sudden need to see Steve smile._

_“Bucky….”_ He repeated the misspeak softly, his chest tugging with uncertainty, and an edge of distress as Steve’s mouth tightened, his eyes squeezing close. James looked up at Steve, and dropped his eyes away, his gaze sweeping over the concrete floor to his caretaker’s shoes, before he parted his lips, that tiny smile tugging back at his lips. “I kinda like that…”

Steve’s eyes flashed open, his gaze snapping up to James, but the other man just stood there, smiling softly, his eyes dropped away, and he didn’t look like he was complying out of submissive obedience. He looked honest. It looked like the truth, for the pure, simple reason that it _was._

James _liked_ the way Bucky sounded. But he liked the way it sounded, because it had come from _Steve._ He’d liked when Steve had called him buddy, the nickname gentle, and affectionate, and used to sooth his manic fear. Now it had a personal element to...a portion of his newly regained name...and sense of singular identity. There were sure to be others in Steve’s life, others that could get similarly affectionate nicknames...but maybe, selfishly, James could be his only _Bucky._

Steve let his tongue slide out to wet his lips, the discomfort in his gut cautiously easing. “Really?” He asked quietly, inclining his head towards him just slightly, and James’s eyes flickered up from the concrete. He offered him a tiny, shy nod, his eyes dropping away again, and Steve’s stomach exploded with bashful butterflies. James had his name back, and now Steve had a nickname for him...it was so... _normal_...Their interactions- their relationship- was planted in a hostile environment. It was harsh, and suffocating, and mean, but somehow, this tiny, _normal_ thing had come to fruition even out of such surroundings. Steve had a nickname for him, and James- _Bucky,_ like it...Not only that, but he was comfortable expressing that too him. It was more than Steve could have ever hoped for, and he couldn’t help himself as he reached out, and softly brushed his fingers along his elbow.

“Okay... _Bucky_.” He said, the second word coming out a little soft, and his heart fluttered in his chest as his charge leaned into the touch, his gaze lifting from under his sweep of thick lashes. Steve offered him a reassuring smile, and suddenly, the flutter in his chest faltered, and skipped a beat as James moved- very slowly, very carefully- in against Steve’s chest. The guard’s lungs froze, his mouth parted with surprise. Bucky’s chest brushed his, his forehead resting against his collar as Steve stood stock still, one hands still on his prisoner’s elbow, the other hovering helplessly out in the air by his left shoulder, not quite touching. He was standing- resting against him. His eyes were closed, his shoulders loose, and Steve let out his frozen breath cautiously as his hand came to rest over his metal bicep.

Steve wet his mouth, his heart racing a hundred miles per hour. _God he wanted this so bad_ \- to wrap James up in a hug, and cradle him close, and let him be held in warmth, and safety as he soaked up the sun, and breathed in the fresh air. The affection inside him had continued to grow, until affection was no longer a strong enough word. It was _almost_ love, and it scared Steve to _death,_ yet at the same time, he wanted to plunge in headlong, consequences be damned...but he couldn’t, least of all right now.

Steve tipped his chin, feeling Bucky’s breath on his collarbone through the spit guard, feeling the rise and fall of his shoulders under his hands as Steve stood there, stiff as James relaxed against him. “B...Bucky…” He pressed softly, his voice a little above a whisper, his adoring heart forced halfway up his throat. Slowly, his grip grew slightly more firm on his charge’s arms, reluctantly easing him back just a hair’s breadth, hating the way it made the tension return to James’s body. “James...Someone else could see…you can’t...” _God he hated that._ Bucky was seeking out affection, and physical comfort. He was trusting Steve with his unguarded well-being and Steve had to turn him down...but James was damaged, and abused, but not stupid. He’d understand.

Slowly, Bucky eased back under Steve’s guidance, his head still bowed, his eyes flickering up to scan cautiously for any signs of aggression in Steve’s gaze, even though he already knew he’d find nothing. After a second, the searching gaze dropped away, and Bucky eased back, his throat shifting as he swallowed, Steve’s eyes drawn magnetically to the movement.

“Sorry...that was...inappropriate…”

Steve's lips parted slightly, before he closed them again, his eyes dropping away. he couldn't say it wasn't...he _knew_ it was...this had _been_ inappropriate since the moment he'd started tenderly holding Bucky's hand through the slot well over a month back. In had been inappropriate since he'd cradled his bound, shaking figure in his arms, gently stroking his cheeks and brow to sooth his blind terror. Steve was rapidly slipping- falling in love, and if James wanted exploit him, he'd have him wrapped around his finger...it was dangerous...it'd get him fired, and James inevitably punished....but Steve couldn't make himself regret it. Maybe it was one sided, and doomed to end in his heartbreak. Maybe Bucky couldn't ever love him back, but at least- at the very least, James deserved to know what it felt like to be loved....

Steve cleared his throat, his chin dropping down as his fingers slid slowly from his charge's elbow. "Sorry." Steve murmured apologetically, not meeting that soft, abused gaze from behind the mesh hood, but he caught Bucky's tiny nod out of the corner of his eyes, before his face turned back up to the sky. Steve couldn't help but feel relieved when the hard, sharp angles of Bucky's softened, his mind instantly taken by the sight of the sky above him once more; and Steve turned his eyes up as well, trying to see what Bucky did when he looks up past the high wire roof.    

"I've never had a guard like you..."

Again, James's openness caught Steve off guard, and he blinked looking over at him, only to realize James had already been gazing his way. Slowly, his tongue slid out to wet those plush, red lips, he deeply fractured eyes lingering critically on Steve. "Or a handler." He added, distinguishing starkly between the prison staff, and the agents of Hydra; two forces and organizations who'd only ever abused him, and violated his humanity. And for once, James was the one to speak as Steve stared in silence, completely unsure of how to respond. Bucky dropped his gaze away. "You don’t treat me like a killer…”

Steve’s mouth tightened slightly, his eyes darting back and forth around the closed yard and he grappled with unspoken words, loyalty to his profession warring with affection for Bucky. “I don’t believe you _are_ one.”

_There. He’d said it._ He’d owned his mutinous thoughts completely. He _didn’t_ believe Bucky was a killer, he _didn’t_ believe he deserved to be here, and he _didn’t_ believe he deserved the deplorable conditions he’d been saddled with. If James was going to exploit him, Steve had just flashed him a neon sign that he was a soft-centered pushover that could be easily manipulated into aiding in a jail break. But the look on his face was the furthest from opportunistic Steve had ever seen.

Bucky turned back to face his, eyes flashing with something Steve couldn’t read as he stared at him, and suddenly, unspoken, raw hurt bloomed behind his gaze. “I am though…” He said softly, flexing his hands in the cuffs behind him, violent images surfacing in his mind of those hands covered with blood. “I killed people, Steve...so many innocent people…”

“But it wasn’t your call.”

_“-Just because I don’t remember doesn’t mean it wasn’t my call.”_

Steve’s heart could have burst for the lack of hesitation in James’s voice. He hated to hear him calling himself a murderer, in the voice of everyone who’d ever said the same, but still...James was staring at him desperately, and there was no dawning horror in his eyes that he’d spoken out against a guard. He wasn't flinching away from Steve, and murmuring broken apologies; expecting brutalization, and punishment. James was trusting Steve even enough to disagree with him. Enough to take an opposite point of view when that would have only gotten him hurt before, and Steve was so proud he could burst. But he swallowed it back, letting the words Bucky had spoken dissipate into the fresh, clean air. Slowly, the look of raw, desperate self-hatred began to fade from his eyes, and Steve eased forward, daring to gently touch his elbow once more, his thumb rubbing comfortingly over the thin material of the jumpsuit.

_“I don’t believe that_ …” Steve said quietly, meeting his wide, brown eyes, confusion spilling into the cracks in Bucky’s tormented soul. Cautiously, Steve eased a step closer. “It’s been almost four months...in that time, I’ve seen you every day...in the past month or so we’ve _spoken_ every day...I don’t know a lot about you, and neither do you, but...that’s _okay,_ ‘cause I do know one thing, and that’s that you’re _good.”_ Steve licked his lips, his gaze dropping momentarily to James’s mouth in a moment of weakness before his lifted his eyes back to his, giving his elbow a soft squeeze. “I believe that you’re a good person, Bucky…” He murmured, the new nickname spilling warmth down into James’s chest, filling his heart. “I think you’ve been hurt...and used...but I _don’t_ think you’re a killer.”

Bucky met Steve’s stare, his lips parted, eyes touched with an aching mixture of reassurance, and pain, his own self blame conflicting with Steve’s gentle absolve of his guilt. He didn’t know what to believe; years of being told he was a monster by those who hurt him, or a few gentle words of reassurance by the one person who _hadn’t._  

But before Bucky could speak, the small electronic piece on Steve’s belt beeped three times in quick succession, and Steve pulled abruptly away, his hand falling to the device. He silenced it with a touch, reluctance suddenly dragging at his muscles as he looked back up to him. “Time’s up…” Steve said quietly, hating the way Bucky’s eyes rounded, and his gaze snapped upward, his lungs filling like he’d never see the sky, or know the sweetness of the fresh air in his lungs again. His expression was written with pained reluctance, and Steve reached out, gently taking his arm. “It’s okay, James…” He assured him quietly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, eyes still desperately drinking in the yard, and Steve’s grip tightened comfortingly. “James, it’s alright...I’ll bring you back here as soon as I’m allowed...this isn’t gonna be the only time, _I promise.”_

James looked back to him, his expression still wrent with fear and misgivings, but Steve just eased in, his mouth turning up in a tiny, reassuring smile. “Hey…” He said softly, framing his arms with both hands, grounding him, offering him solid, immovable support. “Hey...Bucky….trust me.”

At the sound of the nickname, the prisoner felt the growing knot of discomfort, and fear ease. He caught his breath, eyes drifting from Steve, up to the dimming sky, before lowering back down. His caretaker was still waiting for him patiently, even though several minutes had passed since his time had run down, and James suddenly realized that Steve was going to handle this just like he’d handled everything else- with his best interests in mind….if Steve said they’d come back...they’d come back. He had to trust that. He had to trust _Steve._ And slowly, the man who’d once only been the Soldier, then James, and now Bucky nodded haltingly in agreement. His expression had eased, growing resigned, but trusting, his neglected body still pressing into the touch of Steve’s gentle hands.

“-’kay…” The half syllable escaped him in a whisper, and Bucky let Steve take his elbow, and gently lead him to the door of the yard, leading him back into the deep, winding hallways of the prison- back into the claustrophobic rooms, and the stale, recycled air. Bucky’s feet dragged reluctantly behind him, his eyes turning back to gaze over his shoulder as Steve guided him along. He detested leaving the yard behind. Left to himself, he would live there if he could. If he could have no other freedom, he would still want to live where he could feel the sun on his cheeks, and shoulders, and hair; where he could smell the air, and the leaves, and subtle traces of rain. Left to his own, Bucky would never step foot inside again...but if Steve said they’d go back soon...they’d go back soon. And so he complied, and let Steve take him back to the vicious, stale cell.

As they entered the room that lead into his cell, Steve’s free hand pushed down a small lever on a slider in the control panel, before closing, and sealing the entry room according to protocol. As they approached the cell door though, Steve could help but see the raw misery that washed over Bucky’s gaunt face as he stared at the heavy steel barrier. The thinly veiled anguish hurt Steve to see. He hated it. He hated seeing that expression on Bucky’s face, and knowing he had to make it worse by cooping him up in the tiny cube he’d only just escaped for a few brief minutes. It wasn’t fair, but it also wasn’t avoidable…

“Here,” Steve murmured, gently turning Bucky to face him although his charges eyes would no longer lift from his shoes. He looked miserable...and desperate, and Steve’s heart clenched violently in his ribs. Tenderly, the guard undid the fastenings around his prisoner’s neck, gently lifting the mesh spit guard off from around Bucky’s head. It wasn’t a solution, but having the light enclosure off from around his skull brought a weak, thin wash of relief ghosting across Bucky’s face, and Steve swallowed hard.

_He was in too deep-_

_He was in way too deep-_

Steve reached out and tenderly laid one hand against Bucky’s face, cradling his jaw softly, and feeling his warm skin, and rough stubble against his palm. _He was so beautiful.._.He was so kind, and damaged Steve could hardly bare the thought of locking him away again...but right now, doing anything else would help no one…

Slowly, Bucky’s gaze dragged up to his, haunted, and desperate, his eyes wide, and bright with fear. “Steve…” He whispered, his tone raw, muscles tense. “Steve please...don’t put me back in there…” He begged, his tongue sliding out to wet his mouth, desperation turned his mind to a flurry of aggravated activity, but the only way he would permit it to manifest was the soft, broken plea of a man condemned. _“Please…”_ Bucky breathed, feeling Steve’s gentle hand press warmly against his cheek.

Steve swallowed hard, his throat in his knot, his heart feeling as though it had been violently ripped, and tread into a mangled, bloody pulp. He hated this, but there was one thing he’d been able to do to ease the inevitable. It wasn’t enough to make up for Bucky being sentenced to this hellhole in the first place, but it was something. Something to help- to make it a little easier. That seemed to be all Steve was good for. Reaching up, Steve took Bucky’s exposed face in both hands, his chest clenching with pain. “I’m sorry…” He murmured, his thumbs grazing over his cheekbones as Bucky let out a wrecked, shuddering sigh. “You know I wouldn’t make you if I had any other choice…”

James didn’t meet his eyes, but his mouth set with resigned hurt, his chin dipping in a tiny nod. Steve’s hands smoothed gently down over his jaw, indulging in one more moment of touch before he let them slide from Bucky’s face, and he reached up, pulling open the heavy steel door.

Bucky felt his heart stutter with shock.

_The cell was different._

When your entire word was an 8x10 space that you’d been trapped within for four years, you learned every detail. Even the slightest difference would have caught Bucky’s attention, and as he stood, slack jawed, staring inside, he couldn’t recover from the difference one little thing made.

_The lights were dim._

The bright, harsh fluorescents had been dimmed to just enough to see by- just enough for him to see what he needed to get ready before going to sleep in near darkness for the first time since his incarceration. The glare that burned his sensitive retinas- that keened, and set his teeth on edge, bringing malicious, chattering voices to the surface of his mind...was _gone_...it was dark. _..his cell was dark._..and it was more than Bucky could take.

It was the little things that broke him now, and staring into the soft, dimness of his cell, Bucky felt himself break in the gentlest way possible. He felt the rigid, desperate tension in his body crack, falling away in tiny fragments of shattered crystal. He felt his heart flush with something so hot, and painful, and so undeniable sincere that he thought that too would shatter. And in a moment of weakness, Bucky felt warm, wet tears spill down his hollow cheeks.

“Bucky?...”

He blinked. Once- twice- his vision blurring, and Steve’s hand laid softly along his jaw once more. Hesitantly, Bucky turned his eyes away from the blessedly dim cell, meeting Steve’s gaze, which was knotted with uncertainty, and concern. “Bucky?” His caretaker pressed again, his tone still soft, and gentle, his mouth set with an edge of uncertainty- a fear that the darkness was something that had stirred fear in Bucky rather than waves of drowning relief.

_“It’s dark.”_ The words slipped Bucky softly, his voice raw, and weak, and his lashes fluttered as another trickle of tears spilled down his cheeks. He...He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried like this...he’d cried from tear gas- from nightmares, and memories so violent they had shaken him to his core- but not like this. These tears were gentle, and overwhelmed, and shocked...shocked that Steve would do _so much_ for him...shocked that he was being treated with such care even when he still wasn’t sure he deserved it. But it made his throat close none the less, his expression contorting as a raw, shuddering breath escaped his lips.

“It’s _dark-”_ He repeated brokenly, the corners of his mouth turning up in an aching smile, and Steve’s expression suddenly softened with relief, Bucky’s smile assuring him that the tears weren’t out of distress or fear.

Nodding shakily, Steve eased in closer, his mouth blooming into a smile. “Yeah…” He breathed softly. “Yeah, Buck...I didn’t….I wasn’t authorized to change the conditions in your cell but...it’s just a light...no one’s gotta know, right?”

Bucky let out another raw breath that was something like a restrained sob, the prisoner pressing desperately into his hand as Steve reached up, tenderly carding his fingers through his hair. “Just while you're sleeping…” He said softly, not even able to bring himself to be distressed over the way his heart turned warm with affection as Bucky stared up at him.

His mouth opened and closed shakily, James battling with words he couldn't quite say, because to Steve, it was just a light, and it was as easy as turning down a sliding switch. But to Bucky...to Bucky it had been a slow, subtle torture that had wrecked ceaseless havoc on his delicate, brutalized mind for four years. And there was no way he could make him understand that. There was no way Steve could ever truly grasp the gravity of what he'd done for him.

Slowly, Bucky sunk against him, feeling Steve's heart skip, feeling his chest expanding in a breath of surprise as he pressed into him. His face turned against Steve's collar, his chest pressed to Steve's the way he'd wanted, but couldn't have, in the yard earlier, and after a long moment, Steve reciprocated. The room leading into Bucky's cell was closed, and Steve was one of very few staff members even authorized to enter it, so he felt secure enough in their privacy to slowly let his arms slid around Bucky's shoulders and back. He hugged him cautiously, his hold light, and unrestraining as Bucky leaned into the touch. The bound man craned into the hug, so desperate...so starved for touch, and in the closed privacy of the room, Steve allowed himself to give it to him.

Bucky shuddered against him, crying softly into his shirt as Steve held him, and suddenly, he lifted his forehead from Steve's collar, eyes dragging up to his. At the shift, Steve gently eased his arms from around him, his large, strong palms coming back up to frame his face and Bucky felt a sigh of relief slip his throat. He never wanted Steve to stop touching him. He never wanted to have to be separate from those soft, gentle hands.

_How was he allowed to have this?_ How, after so long of torture, and abuse, was he allowed to be touched by this gentle, sincere man who did everything he possibly could to set right what had been done to him? It didn’t make sense, and for the first time, Bucky didn’t care.

“ _Thank you…_ ” he whispered, leaning into the touch, feeling Steve’s heart speed up, Bucky’s eyes falling closed. He drew in a slowly breath, his tongue sliding out to wet his cracked lips, his lashes fluttering against his cheekbones. “Thank you...thank you, Steve... _thank you_ …” Steve blinked, suddenly overwhelmed by Bucky’s reaction to the simple gift. He was right. Steve _couldn’t_ understand what he’d done for him, even though Bucky wanted him too. He wanted to him understand- he had to know- he had to know what this meant to him-

Suddenly, Bucky was seized by an urge so instinctive and powerful he was helpless to resist.

In a moment of blind, numb gratitude, Bucky leaned forward, and pressed his mouth to Steve’s.

Steve felt like he’d been punched in the chest. His heart stopped, his lungs freezing halfway through a breath. The guard's eyes turned huge as panic, and alarm poured into a conflicted concoction of dizzy, helpless love. His hands fumbled on Bucky’s face, torn between drawing him in, and shoving him away. And suddenly, the panic driven tension spilled from his body and he pressed into the kiss.

His heart left his duty-driven mind behind, getting swept along in the affection Bucky offered him, and his hands drew Bucky’s mouth in closer, his eyes falling closed as he kissed him. Bucky’s chapped lips were warm, the man making a tiny sound in the back of his throat as Steve reciprocated the kiss. He leaned in shakily, his tight, uncertain lips loosening under Steve’s, his tears were wet on Steve’s cheeks, his face heating under his strong palms.

Suddenly, Steve drew a deep breath through his nose and broke the kiss, his chest tightening, his lips lingering wantingly on Bucky’s for a selfish second more. He felt breathless, and dizzy, his head pounding- heart racing. He felt like he could sweep Bucky back in and kiss him again- kiss him and never stop. But as it was, he should have never even started.

Bucky pulled back, his damp lashes lifting, as his eyes suddenly rounded out, lifting to Steve’s in a look something like fear. He could feel the moment of blind gratefulness, and uncustomary affection giving way to horror- a realization that he’d stepped _way_ over a carefully down line. But as his mortified gaze wrenched up to Steve, the guard met his eyes with only stunned silence. His eyes were as wide as Bucky’s, but lacked the horror. Instead, his face was flushed pink across the cheeks and ears, his gaze darting feverishly between Bucky’s lips, and eyes. And suddenly, he blinked rapidly, drawing in another breath without ever fully letting the first out, and his thumb dragged shakily under Bucky’s wet lashes.

Instead of speaking- instead of reacting the way James had feared _at all_ \- Steve just shifted his gentle hold on his face. He turned his hands, tenderly brushing Bucky’s tears away with the back of one knuckle, his fingertips ghosting over his chapped lips for just a moment before he affectionately soothed his hands down both cheeks and released him.

Bucky complied in stunned silence as Steve turned him around, gently undoing the ankle, and elbow tethers before leading him into his quiet, dim cell. For the cuffs, Steve didn’t even make him lie on the ground with his ankles cross. He stood in the middle of the tiny cell, and James stood -silent, and still- as Steve unlocked the cuffs and eased them from around his wrists. He didn’t move, his back to his caretaker, as he clipped them back on his belt, and after a long second, Bucky felt Steve’s hand come to rest on the back of his right shoulder. And though Bucky could sense some of Steve’s internal conflict, the touch was still gentle, and reassuring, and Bucky soaked it in with closed eyes, and a deep breath.

And then, Steve let his hand slide away from his charge, and turned, slipping out of the cell and locking it quietly behind him.

Back inside his tiny cube once again, Bucky let out a breath, his eyes opening. The room was just light enough to see the outline of his bed, and the sink and toilet, but the darkness inspired a gentle stillness inside his brutalized soul, and Bucky let his mouth turn up into a tiny, careful smile.

He could still feel Steve’s lips on his- still feel the gentleness of his hands as he’d wiped his tears away, and tenderly stroked his cheeks. He could still feel the tiny, fluttering desire to make Steve look at him like that again, burning softly in his chest.

He could feel the warmth of Steve on his skin.

He could smell the fresh air in his clothes.

His cell was dark.

_And Bucky had had a very good day..._

 


	7. Research

Steve’s gentle calm splintered the moment the lock clicked behind him.

His air escaped him as though he’d been punched, his lashes suddenly fluttering as he blinked rapidly, a hot sweat breaking out all over his skin. His head was spinning, and his stomach had twisted into a sick knot. His mouth was so warm- He-

_He needed a moment._

Steve pulled away from Bucky’s cell door, his hands shaking as he blindly ran through the locking procedure, preparing to leave his door unattended. Were it not for months of practice, his unfocused eyes and uncoordinated hands would have made a mess of the process, but as it was, Steve found the details in order before he thoughtlessly took a direct course to the restroom. On the outside, he looked tight-lipped, and strained; just another prison guard who was fed up by the end of the day. Internally, his mind was a flurry of panic. Internally, he was the guard who’d just broken one of the most carnal rules of the system. _Internally, he was the guard who’d just kissed a prisoner._

Steve pushed open the restroom door with unconscious force, hearing it slam behind him in his wake, and he flinched anxiously, his wide eyes snapping down the row of still, open stalls. _Thank god_. The empty restroom was a small mercy, and Steve made his way, on shaking legs, to one of the sinks, bracing his weight against it. He let out a ragged breath, his eyes closing for a long moment.

 _He couldn’t think._ Too much had just happened. It was too much for him to process.

Steve forced his eyelids open, finally catching sight of his reflection, and staring numbly. He could see the shock and conflict written all over his face in the form of wide eyes, and a complexion that had gone almost ashen. Any other kiss would never have done this to him. Any _normal_ kiss wouldn’t have reduced him to this mess of conflict and anxiety. But it wasn’t normal. It was so much more, and so much _worse_ than normal in so _very many_ ways.

First of all, it _wasn’t_  'just any' kiss because, now more than ever, Steve realized he was falling for Bucky. Four months of seeing Bucky every day had guided his feeling from duty, to affection, to love, almost without his notice. He wasn’t all the way there, but he was slipping- slipping so hard, and so fast he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to claw his way back out. That in itself was enough to make Steve flustered after a kiss, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. That was just _Steve._

And then there was his _job._ He would get sacked for sure if anyone found out he’d shared a kiss with a prisoner. He would be fired, and most likely blacklisted from other correctional facilities. There could even be a corruption lawsuit... _he could go to jail._ And in the meantime, Bucky would be handed over to someone else entirely, who would ignore, and neglect him in the _best case,_ or potentially even abuse, and terrorize him in the worst. He’d never see the justice he deserved. He’d live the rest of his life in that cruel little cube while Steve himself was serving time, without the hope of ever working in criminal justice again, even after his sentence was up.

And then there was _Bucky_ … _God_...that was the worst part about this. _That_ was why Steve was so badly shaken, why he knew deep in his aching, desperate soul that he _needed_ to stop before this got out of control.

Because Bucky was touch-starved, _not in love._

After so much violence, and abuse, Bucky _desperately_ desired gentle words, and gentle touch, but his heart was still mangled, and scarred. If Steve took his hunger for physical attention as _love,_ he would end up corning Bucky into some twisted form of relationship that he didn’t want...Besides, even if Bucky _did_ have feelings for Steve, _right now,_ they _couldn't_ be healthy, forming more out of stockholm's syndrome than anything. Though it wasn't Steve's call to keep him here, he was _still_ his captor. He provided him food, and other necessities, but yet at the same time, he was gentle with him. Bucky had a natural dependence on Steve, and Steve's care was making Bucky latch onto him in a way that was unnatural, and unhealthy. Bucky _couldn't_ truly love Steve right now...and if he ever could...Steve wanted it to be far away from here.

He didn't want Bucky to love him if it only came to codependency, and misery.

Steve let out a raw breath, his eyes still fixed on his hollow reflection, conflict ripping his soul to shreds. _How the fuck was he supposed to deal with this?_ He couldn’t have Bucky for so many reasons; more for _Bucky’s_ sake than his, but he couldn’t just... _stop_ either. Bucky had never had someone be kind to him- be _affectionate_ towards him. He _needed_ it...and Steve was the only person in the entire world he trusted to give that to him. If Steve cut off everything but the necessities of his physical care, he was sure he’d damage Bucky beyond repair. He’d never trust anyone again, because he’d already been there once. Bucky had thought he could never trust anyone, and he’d finally let Steve in. He’d trusted him, and he hadn’t been hurt. If Steve were to just abandon him...it’d shatter him. It’d shatter _Steve_ too…

 _God-_ he just needed to get away. He just needed a little bit of distance to sort himself out. Steve passed a hand over his face, feeling the heat still lingering in his cheeks, his bangs clinging to his forehead. He’d stop by his superior's office and request a sick day. Just _one day_ to get his  dangerous emotions in check, because he couldn’t continue on like this without his renegade heart leading him, _and_ Bucky into harm. It wasn’t fair- _God-_ everything about this situation was just so fucking _unfair-_ Steve shouldn’t have to break Bucky’s trust to keep him from getting hurt worse. He shouldn’t have to fear punishment for the simple crime of falling in love. Bucky shouldn’t have to be threatened with a vicious new guard were Steve to be removed. _Fuck..._ He shouldn’t even have to be here in the first place.

_Bucky didn’t deserve this…_

He didn’t deserve to be locked away for his entire life. He-

Steve’s mind abruptly crashed to a halt, the air leaving his lungs as realization hit him like a bucket of lead.

_Bucky didn’t deserve to be here._

He didn’t deserve to be here, and all Steve needed was evidence. He’d already admitted to Steve that he had no memory of his past life, that he knew little more about himself than his own name. Bucky was afraid that the blood on his hands had gotten there by his own volition, but he didn’t remember the crimes he’d committed, or why. He had no motive. And whether it was his hands performing the crimes or not, Steve believed with everything in him that Bucky hadn’t wanted to. He was quiet, and gentle, and head shy. He wasn’t a malicious killer, and _just maybe_ Steve could prove that.

Suddenly, Steve forgot entirely about taking the day off. He forgot entirely about leaving the prison complex at all.

Steve turned on his heel, out of the restroom in a moment as he strode down one of the long, white halls of the prison. His mind was racing, adrenaline pounding through his body. If he could prove this, Bucky’s case could be reopened. In all probability, _years_ could be taken of his sentence. If they were _very_ lucky, he might even go _free._ It wasn’t much as odds went, but Steve would take it, because Bucky was worth every _fraction_ of a percent that was stacked against them.

Steve wasn’t thinking with his heart anymore. He wasn’t following this path so he could somehow justify his feelings, he was following it because _Bucky deserved it._ He’d been so badly hurt, and subjected to such heinous conditions for so long. He deserved nothing _less_ than freedom. He deserved to be able to walk unbound, and to see the sky without having to stare up through a wire ceiling. He deserved to be in possession of himself; not a piece of property within an unjust system. If Steve could just find evidence to prove it hadn’t been Bucky’s fault...there was a tiny chance he could have all that.

The guard unlocked the door to his office, stepping in and closing it behind him. He turned on the dim, fluorescent light, drawing the blinds hurriedly even as it flickered and hummed weakly to life above him. Blinking at the change of lighting, Steve flipped open the lid of his laptop, dropping down into his seat.

The first thing he did, was pull up everything he had on 088074. He pulled up arrest records, prison records, the file from his one medical examination. There were a _lot_ of blank spaces. He was listed only under John Doe, his age only approximate, birthdate entirely blank. No social security number, no previous address...no family. He’d barely let the in house physician work with him long enough to draw any conclusion. The medical file was as sparse as the rest of his records. No one knew who this man was, or where he’d come from, but Steve had something no one who’d ever tried to find the Winter Soldier had before; _his real name._

Leaning closer to his screen, Steve began to dig.

He combed through ancestry sites, military records, and old news articles, searching for any references to James Buchanan Barnes. He dragged social media sights, and fished through email lists. He looked up lists of college alumni that would have graduated around the time Bucky would have. There was more than one of them, as Steve had assumed, and his eyes started burning, and turning bleary the longer he sorted through them. One name after another turned up dead ends. Most of the James Buchanan Barnes he found Steve could trace to a living person somewhere on the planet. Only one had ever disappeared, but the math worked out to age him around fifteen, rather than Bucky’s late twenties early thirties. Many were long dead- _ancient history-_ including a war hero who’d died in the second world war.

His searching took him deeper, into restricted access sites and archives- into the tor network, and other unsightly, and less trafficked corners of the internet. He’d thought he’d turn _something_ up. The deeply buried sites he’d dissected were a wealth of potential insights on drug trades, and even less seemly traffic. The criminal justice system kept tabs on sites like theses, and Steve felt uncomfortable, and shady fishing through them. He anonymously messaged users without locked profiles, probing subtly for leads, but if anyone had heard of the Winter Soldier at all, it was only in myth.

Steve sat back from the screen, his eyes burning, and wetting his lashes as he blinked hard, scrubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes. He should have been home hours ago. He was off the clock, yet despite the burning in his eyes, Steve knew he couldn’t rest until he’d exhausted his possibilities. _Bucky was innocent._ He just needed to prove it, and if not him, someone better suited for the job. Steve’s weary eyes dropped slowly to the phone on his desk.

Anyone else knowing about this could cause trouble...there was _so much_ at stake, could he really risk bringing someone else in? Could he risk _not?_

Slowly, Steve reached out, and took the phone into his hand. He had used all the resources available to him. He’d used his access and influence to penetrate layers of the tor network he really shouldn’t have been anywhere _near._ And still he’d found nothing...but maybe someone better than him could.

His search shifted. He cleared all traces of his history from the computer, not just the visible evidence, but the lines of code buried inside folders within folders within folders in the computer’s trash system. He wiped it clean, and then, on his own personal device, began searching for someone who could so what he hadn’t been able too.

“ _Alias Investigations…_ ” Steve murmured under his breath, his mind thick from lack of sleep. It was four in the morning, and he was _exhausted,_ but his determination wouldn’t cool. It wouldn’t cool, and it wouldn’t let him rest. Alias Investigation seemed to be his safest option. The private eye seemed to have a record of success, and a history of unusual cases. She was good. She knew what she was doing, and Steve only hoped he could trust her. Even so, Ms. Jessica Jones didn’t need all the details...he just needed her to find the man he’d been guarding for four months. Or more correctly, she just needed to be able to find who he _used to_ be.

Steve took in a steadying breath, and called the number. He waited. Two rings. Three. Four-

_“What?”_

Steve jerked in surprise, his eyes darting guiltily to the clock. The woman on the other end of the phone didn’t seem like she’d been up already… “Sorry-” Steve started haltingly, and was cut off by a growl that sounded like it had been muffled into a pillow.

“Just- get to the fucking point. It’s four in the morning.”

Steve responded to the snarled command with a sudden snap of clarity. “I want to hire you.” He said shortly. “I need you to find someone.”

A sigh crackled across the speaker. God, this lady seemed to _loathe_ being awake at this hour with every fiber in her being. “What have I got to work with?”

“Name, gender, I can get you a photo from 2012, and his current status.”

“That’s it?” Steve faltered under the grainy silence that followed her words. “You’re telling me you’re going to give me a guy or girl’s name, and a four year old picture and expect me to find them?”

Steve pinched his lips together, not begrudging her frustration, or the tone in her voice that conveyed her less than savory feelings towards him. “No, it’s not as simple as that.” He said, his stomach turning oddly inside him. “It- I already know _where_ he is, but I want you to help me figure out _who_ he _was._ He doesn't remember anything, and he’s in prison for something he didn’t do. But I can’t prove that without knowing where he came from first.”

This time, there was no immediate retort, just the distant shift of a mattress, and the crinkle of paper. Steve held the phone to his ear, his breath still in his lungs. Finally, he heard a huff on the other end- hair being blown out of eyes. “Alright, it’s your dime. Give me the info.”

Steve let out a ragged breath, his eyes closing for just a moment, before he gathered his thoughts, and parted his lips to speak.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was seven in the morning when Steve drew up the blinds in his office. Even after calling _Alias Investigations_ , he hadn’t been able to make himself leave. He’d continued pouring through dead ends, until he’d slipped briefly into an exhausted sleep at five thirty only to wake again with a jolt an hour and a half later. Now, though he _technically_ wasn’t supposed to punch in until eight, Steve saw no point in waiting. Bucky deserved to know about this.

He made his way from his office, through the sprawling prison complex until he reached the solitary confinement unit. Bucky was further back still. His prison had been designed specially, as his metal arm could have bent the standard bars, or warp the standard doors with ease. His tiny little cube, surrounded by six inches of steel on all sides and lined interiorly with concrete was situated in the far back of the complex, within a second room that would function as another cell in case of the unlikely emergency that he force his way through the door. Steve swiped his card, letting the retina scanner flare a line of red light across his burning eyes before he stepped through the door.

Bucky’s swing shift guard glanced up from the small desk in the corner of the secondary room. This particular guard oversaw Bucky over night, and on Steve’s one day off, and to Steve’s knowledge, he’d never _once_ even acknowledged that there was life beyond the steel door. He didn’t interact with Bucky at all. He didn’t speak to him. He ignored him entirely...Steve supposed it was better than the alternative.

“You’re early.” He murmured under his breath, and Steve barely graced him with an obligatory nod. He wasn’t interested in conversing with him. _He just wanted Bucky._

“I can take over from here.”

The swing shift guard looked up at him once more, seeming to balance to pros and cons of the offer, before deciding that getting home a full hour yearly was worth losing the hour in pay just this once. Without a single word further, the two guards moved around each other as the swing shift guard packed up, and Steve settled in. The other man pushed open the door, before it shuddered closed behind him, automatically locking, and leaving Steve alone with the prisoner he'd fallen in love with.

Steve walked slowly to Bucky’s door, his breath shallow, and tight. He stood there for a long moment his fingers resting on the food slot knob, and suddenly he felt like the first day all over again- carefully selecting each and every word, but it was...different. Steve wasn't, and never really _had been_  afraid Bucky would exploit his kindness, but his mouth still felt thick, and gummed up. And Steve realized, with a flush of embarrassment, that he felt _awkward_.. _.like a kid with a crush._ Bucky had kissed him, and suddenly, Steve had no idea how to act around him. He had things he needed to talk to him about, _important_ things, but for some reason, his mouth just froze up, his cheeks heating at the memory of Bucky’s lips on his. They’d been so _soft._ So tentative, yet desperate. That man yearned so strongly for a tenderness he’d never experience before Steve, and Steve wanted so badly to give it to him, but there were things that needed to be done first. Bucky needed to be free. And if after Bucky no longer relied on Steve for his most basic needs, if after he had a world of freedom he still _somehow_ wanted Steve...Steve would let go, and let himself completely fall in love with the tender hope that Bucky _really_ loved him back. But until then- until Steve got Bucky out of this poisonous, and hostile environment- he would have to set his feelings, and his hope aside. Bucky’s freedom was more important.

He drew in a soft breath, and gave a gentle tap against the slot with one knuckle, before drawing it open with a quiet click. "Hey, Buck,” He called softly, the words feeling clumsy inside his mouth.

Behind the door, Bucky felt his chest flush with warmth. _Steve._ The sound of his footsteps, and the murmured exchange between guards had drawn him instinctively up out of a deep sleep; something Bucky had experienced very little since his imprisonment. Truthfully, he couldn't remember having _ever_ slept that well. With the lights dim in his cell, he'd fallen asleep so deeply he hadn't even heard his night guard come in. But at the sound of Steve’s low voice, the night before- the whole _day_ before came back to him in a rush of warmth. He’d been allowed out of his cell...he’d been outside.. _.he’d kissed Steve._

A tingling blend of happiness and nervousness spilled down into Bucky's chest. The memory of the kiss made his scarred soul flutter with hope, but he couldn’t let it run away with him. Steve hadn't been angry with him last night, he hadn't punished him for the horrific break of protocol, but that didn't mean it wouldn't change things. He remembered the first time Steve had laid his hand over his; it had been so warm, and gentle, and sincere, but guilt and his sense of duty had overcome Steve, and he hadn't touched him, and _barely_ spoke to him for a long time after that. Bucky didn't want that to happen again....but if it did...if it did, Bucky would accept it, and trust that even Steve's guilty silence would eventually give way once more to his gentle affection. Bucky could allow him that time to process.

Sliding off the cot, Bucky padded, barefoot to the door, the loose material of his jumpsuit rustling softly around his ankles. Bucky placed his fingers over the edge of the slot as he’d become so accustom to doing, the movement more instinctive than anything else now, but Steve’s fingers didn’t come to rest over his own.

“Close your eyes for a minute, Bucky, I've gotta turn the lights back up."

Inside, Bucky felt a smile turning up the corners of his lips. He loved the way it sounded when Steve called him Bucky. He'd been playing it over in his head all night, adjusting to the nickname being his. It was a tender comfort, and even though Bucky loathed the bright, harshness of the light, he obediently closed his eyes and tapped a soft confirmation on the door. A moment later, the cool dimness gave way, light glaring off his closed eyelids. The sudden harshness made something inside Bucky flinch, but he stifled the reaction, soothing it with the fragile hope that Steve would dim the lights again tonight. He was growing selfish. All the things Steve did for him- the gentle touch- the dim light, the yard time, was making him horribly selfish. He just wanted _more,_ and _more,_ and the greed that _should_ have had him punished was...almost _encouraged_ by his guard...Steve seemed to like seeing him enjoying the touch, and soaking in the natural sunlight. He seemed to _like_ when Bucky would be swept along in crashing waves of relief as the lights dimmed. He didn't understand- not by a long shot, but...maybe he could afford to be selfish for a little while longer.

His heart sped up as he wrestled with the decision to reach out for Steve. All he’d had to do in weeks past was turn his hand palm up, and a few moments later, Steve's would come to rest tenderly over his own, but... _he’d kissed him._..and Steve had yet to breath a word on the matter. Bucky didn’t want to push his luck…

But he _did_ want _Steve…_

Cautiously, Bucky shifted his hand, fingers stretching out pleadingly for Steve’s touch. If nothing else, he should apologize...The more his logic and reasoning came back to him, the more he realized that the kiss could mean trouble for Steve.. _.a lot_ of trouble. Bucky knew punishment. It was one of the few things he _did_ know for certain, and if his experience would be anything like Steve’s...he wouldn’t wish that on anyone, much less _Steve,_ much less if he were the cause of it. He didn’t want Steve to be punished because of him...It wouldn’t be fair. But all the same he waited, hand beginning to numb from the awkward position when he felt Steve’s body heat almost against his fingers. So close.  _Hesitating._

After a moment longer, Bucky’s heart shuddered with relief as his fingers closed softly around his, and Bucky gave the hand a soft tug. Steve complied, letting him draw his hand into his little world through the slot, Bucky’s gaze lingering softly on the gorgeous, sinewy lines of his fingers, and the tendons along the back of his hand. His hand _alone_ was a work of art...Bucky reached up, his left hand coming to fold slowly around Steve’s along with his right. He seldom touched him with the metal hand- he was still too distrustful of it- but now, the chrome fingertips caressed Steve’s wrist, his thumb rubbing along the back of Steve’s hand.

Outside the door, Steve shivered at the touch of the metal, his eyes fluttering closed as warmth spread through his stomach. He tried to tell himself that he needed to put a stop to this, but the thought was halfhearted, and died before it could begin to grow into fruition, because Steve felt Bucky’s hot breath on the back of his knuckles as he spoke.

 _“Say something…_ ” The plea escaped Bucky in a rasp, his lips pinching together as he drank in Steve’s beautiful skin, and the strong structure of his bones. Those sturdy fingers curled a little tighter around his….that gentle hand that had brought him the first kind touch in his living memory…

“Buck…” Steve started haltingly, his earlier determination to prove Bucky’s innocence mixing with his conflicted feelings over the kiss, one warring with the other for dominance on his tongue. He _wanted_ what they’d shared.  He wanted to tell him that he’d _loved_ kissing Bucky, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat were their situation any different. He wanted to tell him he cared about him...beyond just a profession...he really _cared_ about him, and he wanted him safe, and happy, and _free_...But he doubted Bucky would understand why he couldn’t, beyond just his position. Steve didn’t believe Bucky could understand that if Steve did this here.. _now_ , he’d be exploiting a man whose emotions were too badly damaged to properly reciprocate or consent.

“I...don’t know what to say.” Steve admitted finally, closing his eyes as Bucky softly held his hand in his own.

Bucky wet his lips, his heart stuttering softly in his chest. “I’m sorry.” He murmured quietly hearing Steve draw in a breath just on the other side of the six inch steel. He didn’t want Steve to be punished because of him...but he also didn’t think he could go back to complete physical isolation. Even if Steve never kissed him again...if he could just hold his hand...if he could just feel the warmth of his fingers intertwined with his he’d be okay, because the more Steve touched him, the more human he felt; the less he heard the hallucinatory chattering in his mind. He didn’t want to be alone again, but he _was_ sorry...so... _so sorry_ to have cause Steve trouble...to have caused him distress.

“...I kissed you back…” Steve breathed after a long second of silence, owning up to his share of the blame. This was wrong...Bucky was a prisoner, and unimaginable things had been done to him...Steve was not only breaking the rules of his profession, but he was dancing _dangerously_ close to a breach of moral law as well. It wasn’t right, or fair to assume Bucky’s actions towards him could _possibly_ informed, sane, and consensual. Just because Steve was the first person to treat him with kindness didn’t mean Bucky wouldn’t realize Steve wasn’t the one for him later on. And it _hurt._ It _hurt,_ but Steve wanted what was best for him...not just what _he_ wanted.

Steve drew a low breath. “I kissed you back,” He repeated softly. “But...we _can’t_ , Buck...that can’t happen again, for so many reason, and...I’m sorry...I really am.”

Inside, Bucky’s heart ached it a way he’d never know possible, It wasn’t a raw ache of fear, or tortured anguish. It was just...tight. It just hurt. He swallowed, his mouth shifting to worry at his lower lips with his teeth, his eyes lingering wantingly on Steve’s hand. “I-” He started, almost protesting, before something crawled up his throat, blocking the words and tightening his trachea. He could have choked around the knot, but he swallowed it back ,hard, the tightness spreading to his stomach and ribs. “ _I know_ …” He managed, but it was soft, and raw, and Steve felt Bucky’s breath whispered over his knuckles again, as though he was tempted to kiss them with those full, gorgeous, red lips. His thumb dragged over the back of Steve’s knuckles instead. “They’ll punish you...I’m sorry…”

Steve swallowed hard at the quiet apology, his stomach twisting. “Don’t apologize…” He murmured, his hand unfreezing a little, just enough to rub his thumb over the back of Bucky’s hand in return. And from within the cell, Bucky gave him a soft squeeze, his heart twisting uncomfortably inside him.

“I’ve...never _wanted_ to kiss someone before…” He divulged quietly, his head dipping so low that his lips just brushed over Steve’s knuckles, tugging a soft shiver from his caretaker. The Asset had been kissed before, by other soldiers of Hydra with rough mouths, and sharp teeth; he’d felt their tongue’s on his pulse point, and obediently dropped to his knees when they’d pushed him down. He’d been kissed before, but it had been out of compliance to superior officers. It had been to serve however his handler’s demanded, but he’d never wanted to do it a second time...with Steve... _he’d kiss him again in a moment._ His mouth had been soft, and gentle on his; _tame,_ despite the firm grip on his face. He’d kissed him like he _really_ wanted to, like he’d wanted nothing more than to kiss Bucky, even without hungry, biting and sucking. Even without hard hands shoving him into a position of subservience.

But it couldn’t happen again...Steve said it couldn’t happen again, and after everything he had done for him, Bucky would do _whatever_ Steve asked. He never wanted to give him _any_ reason to withdraw his comfort, and affection. So Bucky wanted nothing more than to please, and obey him.

At the soft confession, Steve’s mouth turned up in a little smile, his chest tightening, and he gently squeezed his charge’s fingers. “I wish it were different…” He murmured, feeling Bucky’s breath on his knuckles. “I...I _want_ it to be different, Buck...In fact...if you can help me...I- I think I might be able to _make_ it different.”

Suddenly, Bucky lifted his head, his lips pulling away from Steve’s knuckles as his eyes narrowed, a knot of confusion forming between his brows. “Steve?” He said haltingly, his caretakers name sweet as honey on his tongue, even when balanced with the bitterness of his confusion. Steve already risked punishment for him on a weekly basis. He already did more than Bucky ever deserved... _why?_

Steve’s tongue slid out, wetting his lips before he gave his hand a soft tug, and Bucky released it with a hitching intake of breath. Steve slid his hand from the slot, shaking it out briefly before he knelt down, suddenly at eye level with Bucky through the slot. Sky blue eyes locked intensely with Bucky’s. “You _know_ what I believe about you.” Steve said firmly, one hand curled over the edge of the slot, his gaze not wavering from his. “I believe you deserve better, and I believe that whatever happened in your past wasn’t your fault, and I wanna prove that. I’ve got a little help, but without any information...I doubtful even the best could find what you and I need. Now listen,” He pressed softly, the intensity easing from his eyes, replaced suddenly with warmth, and desperate affection. “I _want_ you to be free, Buck. But I’ve gotta have solid evidence to prove what I already know, and to prove it to _you_ if I have to. So if you have _anything-”_ Steve pressed. “Remember _anything_ at all about who you were, or where you came from- if you can tell me at all about Hydra- or _anything.._.Buck...If you can tell me anything, it’s gonna be one step closer to getting you out of here. I- I want that for you... _please_...Anything at all…”

Inside, Bucky’s mouth went slack, his eyes widening as disbelief crashed through his veins like ice water. Making his conditions more humane was one thing, and Bucky was eternally grateful for it, but...Steve was talking about proving his innocence. Bucky wasn’t even sure he _was_ innocent, and yet Steve was risking everything to make someone else believe he didn’t belong here on the off chance that he could be released. It was _baffling._ It was so raw, and emotional, it hurt, and Bucky couldn’t wrap his abused mind around it. _Why?_ Why would Steve do this for him?

“Steve-” He managed again, low, and raspy, his hand coming up to curl over the edge of the slot right next to Steve’s, his eyes staring out at him searchingly. “Steve- _no_...If anyone finds out, they’ll punish you. I- You _can’t…”_ He whispered his voice lowering as though already afraid someone was listening in on their conversation. He couldn’t ask this of him- he couldn’t let Steve do this-

Steve leaned closer, his forehead coming to rest against the cold steel. “Buck-” He pressed firmly, his eyes locking with his. “I can’t just sit back and _not_ do anything. _You’re innocent._ ” Steve said firmly, grabbing Bucky’s hand over the edge. “Alright? I don’t believe any of it was your call, and I’ll be damned if I’m just gonna sit back and let you live out the rest of your life in a tiny little cube ‘cause no one else bothered to see that _someone else_ did this _to_ you! You don’t deserve that…” His tone eased, voice going soft, and gentle. “Please Buck.. _.Let me help…”_

Bucky swallowed hard, his heart tight, mind restless, and raw with scratchy agitation. His eyes darted back and forth, lingering on Steve before ripping away, and being drawn back all over again. He remembered the warmth of the sun on his face...the cool, sweet air on his skin...it would be so good... _so good_ to feel that without being bound, and surrounded by high concrete...it’d be so good to have the freedom to go where he wanted, rather that being left in a tiny box to die for crimes he didn’t even fully remembered...it would be so good. _..so good…_

His breath left him in a shuddering sigh. “I _don’t_ remember…” He admitted softly, feeling Steve give his hand a tiny squeeze. “I don’t know why I can’t remember anything, or why I did those things, just that...I belonged to Hydra…” He faltered, wetting his lips shakily. He’d belonged to them body, mind, and spirit. They could do whatever they wanted to him and he would only obey, and he didn’t even know _why_ …”I…” Bucky swallowed again, something foggy emerging from the cluttered, mutilated mess of his psyche. “I don’t remember…I don’t have any information that can help...”

_“But I think I know where you can find some.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all of your wonderful comments on these past few chapters! I look forward to reading every single one, and they're the highlight of my day. <3 Thanks again, you're all the one's that keep this piece going.


	8. Evidence

_"I remember a facility..."_

The words were spoke in a broken whisper, Bucky’s eyes lowering as he tried to remember the details, and Steve’s fingers instinctively tightened over his. He wasn't sure why, but Bucky's words filled his chest with thick, suffocating coils of dread. It made him feel anxious, and nauseous, and by the way Bucky spoke...suddenly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know at all... But what other choice did he really have? Without this information, they were dead in the water.

_Bucky would never be free._

Through the narrow slot, Bucky’s brow drew into a knot, his tongue sliding out to shakily wet his lips. He looked as nauseous as Steve felt. "I...I woke up there…” He murmured softly, his eyes distant. “There were scientists...a- and soldiers, but I don’t think it was a military facility. I think it was medical, and scientific...the soldiers were there to...to put me down if I acted without orders…”

Steve almost flinched.

 _Put him down._ Like an _animal._ Like his life was worth nothing to them. He’d been allowed no decency, or patience, just order, or death. Steve swallowed hard, his mouth tasting bitter, and sick. _God_...he’d _assumed_ it had been bad just from the way Bucky reacted to everything, but...he didn’t even have the whole picture, and it was already worse than he’d imagined...Soldier’s ready to put him down at a moment’s notice... _god_...how could anyone look at this man and honestly believe this was his fault…

“It was under a production factory in Washington that made parts for cars…” Bucky’s voice had lowered, his brow drawn into a tight knot as he concentrated on remembering. “But...I think it was just a front, because the only thing that was ever shipped in or out of the plant was chemicals, or pieces of lab equipment...sedatives...electrodes…” A visible shiver passed through Bucky’s body, and Steve’s hand tightened comfortingly over his. The prisoner’s eyes had gone dim, and distant. Steve gave him a tiny nod, gently rubbing over the soft point in Bucky’s hand where his thumb joined his palm.

“It’s okay…” Steve breathed quietly, Bucky’s eyes clearing for a moment, looking back up at him. “It’s okay, Buck...You’re doing good...You’re doing _so_ good…” The tender, sincere praise brought a hesitant, shaky smile to Bucky’s lips, and he swallowed hard, resting his forehead against the door. He looked as though he were craning to get as close to Steve as possible; as though he’d much rather face this wrapped in Steve’s strong arms rather than isolated in a tiny, hostile room. He craved so much more comfort that just the gentle stroke of his hand, but he made himself be satisfied with it none the less. He could do this. _For Steve._

“Inside the production plant, there’s an elevator that goes up three floors, and down to a basement level, but at the basement level...if you enter a code, a door will open through the back wall of the elevator car, leading to an extension of the lowest level.”  Bucky explained, details emerging to him as he focused. His memory of this facility had been formed _after_ whatever had happened to scrape his past self out of his mind. It still hurt to think back, but these memories had never been carved out of him. He just had to focus, and ignore the horror that was curdling in his gut at the memory. “The hidden lower level is where I woke up.” Bucky murmured softly, blinking twice, focusing hard on the present. He wasn’t with hydra. He was with Steve, and Steve needed him to remember.

“There were fluorescent lights...like these…” He breathed, glazed eyes flickering momentarily around his cell, as as his mind made the connection, the sick feeling inside him grew stronger. “They were always so harsh, and bright, and the floor was white tile…” A tremor passed through him. Steve felt his stomach give a nervous little twist. “There was...there was a full wall of filing cabinets, and a long steel table covered in instruments…” Bucky’s voice was growing softer, and softer, until Steve needed to lean close to hear. His eyes were distant, and disconnected. His hand had gone clammy under Steve’s, and the guard felt uncertainty suddenly welling up inside him. “There was a small cell,” He said dimly, before trailing off his mind stumbling under the strain of the memories. His mouth opened, and then froze there, gaping sickly as the words clogged his throat, before breaking out in a strangled, nauseous whisper.

“And...and...a _chair-”_

“Bucky, that’s enough.”

The words were firm, and commanding, but not harsh, Steve’s concern from Bucky overriding his need for the information. He was disconnecting. He was drifting somewhere Steve wouldn’t be able to help him, and Steve couldn’t let to happen. His grip tightened on Bucky’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze as his eyes bored into his. _“Alright?_ Look at me, Bucky. _We’re done_. You don’t need to think about it any more.”

Bucky’s haunted eyes flickered up, and suddenly, a raw relief washed through him, his shoulders slumping as he rested his forehead against the door. His breath left him in a shuddering sigh, and Steve felt his stomach tighten with guilt. Bucky looked exhausted…

“There- might be records there…” Bucky whispered, even as Steve made a soothing sound in the back of his throat.

“Shhh...Hey...let it go, Buck...don’t think about it…”

Bucky shuddered, blinking hard as his lips twitched with unspoken words. “M...maybe the files are still there, _I’m sorry, Steve_ \- I wanna remember more- I-”

Suddenly, Steve’s hand slid away from the edge, passing through the slot as far as his arm would allow. Bucky flinched, jerking in surprise as Steve’s hand slid towards him. The touch was firm, but as his hand came to rest against Bucky’s jaw, it was as loving, and free of malice as ever.

“Bucky,” Steve started again, his voice layered with stress, and hurt, and guilt. “Bucky listen to me. You don’t have to push yourself. You don’t have to hurt yourself over this.” His thumb ran along Bucky’s cheekbone, and as he adjusted to the touch, the prisoner found himself leaning into it. Steve’s hand was solid, and firm where it framed his jaw. It was dependable and... _affectionate_. Bucky let out a raw breath, turning his cheek hungrily into his hand.

“Look...I wanna help you get out of here, and I want to find that information, but I don’t want it if it means you hurting yourself…” Outside the door, Steve swallowed hard, his breath getting caught up in his lungs. His pushed his forearm a little further through the slot, his fingers brushing the front of the prisoner’s overlong hair.  “I’ve seen you when you’re scared, Buck...when something pushes you too far...I don’t ever wanna see you like that…” His voice softened, the touch to his stubbly jaw turning almost pleading. “Buck...you don’t _ever_ need to push yourself like that for me…”

Bucky let out a raw huff, turning his face and pressing his rough, full lips to the palm of Steve’s hand. The kiss was shaky, and desperate, and Steve’s heart skipped with surprise as Bucky’s hard, metal hand came up to hold the touch close. He breathed raggedly, nuzzling into his hand, and clinging to the contact.

“ _I have to_ …” He whispered helplessly, his  breath hot on Steve’s palm. “I- I’ve gotta be good enough, so I don’t lose you. _So you don’t stop.._.I want to...do as you say.. _.submit…_ ”

Steve’s stomach curdled with horror.

Nausea rushed up his throat, his mouth going slack as he started -wide eyed- at the slot. _God-_ please tell him he didn’t hear that. _Please tell him he hadn’t heard Bucky saying he wanted to submit himself to him._ The mere thought made him nauseous. It was so sick- _so_ unhealthy.

_It was everything Steve had been afraid of._

He’d thought Bucky’s feelings _might_ develop unhealthily, but until just now, it had still been theoretical. He’d just been preparing himself for the _possibility_ that the emotions Bucky had for him were twisted and unnatural. But hearing it from his own mouth was so much worse, because now Steve _knew._ He _knew_ Bucky’s perspective was so skewed that he’d do anything - _even hurt himself_ \- to maintain Steve’s affections. He wanted to be obedient; to submit to Steve. It made Steve absolutely ill. And the worst part about it? _It wasn’t his fault._ It wasn’t even _Bucky’s._ It wasn’t their fault at all, but a byproduct of the sick, toxic environment they were trapped in. It was formed from the years of torment Bucky had survived, and from the power imbalance that had been forced on them. It wasn’t their fault, but the skewed, abusive perspective was there none the less, and there was no way to halt the damage. _It wasn’t fair._ Steve couldn’t stop this without removing his affections from Bucky; without destroying him in another way entirely. It wasn’t fair.

_It wasn’t fair._

A raw, sick sound escaped Steve’s throat, his eyes closing as a shudder ran up his spine. _“God-”_ He breathed, feeling ill. “God- Buck, _no_...no don’t- I- I don’t want that…” He whispered, his hand feeling clammy as Bucky pressed another halting kiss to his skin- this time his wrist. “ _I don’t want that_ …” But what could he say? He couldn’t simply tell Bucky to stop thinking that way. His charge would stop _verbalizing_ it, but internally, it would just be another rule he had to obey, and submit to at the risk of losing the only kind touch he’d ever received. He was trapped. He had no way of helping him- of stopping this self-destructive, abusive behavior Bucky was developing towards himself, and Steve. His best- no- his _only_ option was to get him out. Otherwise...otherwise this would get worse, and worse, until he was poisoning Bucky with his mere presence, even though removing it would shatter him completely.

Steve dragged in a breath, his eyes flashing open. He had to act. Because words couldn’t help Bucky.

“Bucky listen to me.” The strength was back in his words, his hand growing firm on his cheek once more. “Listen. _I’m gonna get you out_. I’m gonna find that facility and use everything I can get my hands on to get you free, understand?” He drew in a level breath, his chest tightening with anxious determination. “I’m gonna take two days away, but I’ll be back, hopefully with something that’ll help.”

Inside the cell, Bucky’s stomach plunged, his metal grip tightening carefully over Steve’s hand. His words had dried up helplessly, his mind racing with confusion at Steve’s reaction to his devotion. _Was he not being good enough?_ He should be a better tool for Steve’s use. He should submit himself further. He swallowed hard, his muscles tense as he held to Steve’s hand, but at a gentle tug, he reluctantly relinquished it. Steve drew his hand out of the cell, and suddenly, his clear, blue eyes pierced through the slot, staring at him levelly.

“Will you be alright for two days?” He pressed, looking him dead in the eyes. “The swing shift guard will fill in for me, but I want to know that you’ll be okay.”

Bucky swallowed, drawing in a breath to sooth his rattling nerves. He didn’t want to be alone- to be ignored, and untouched, but... _for Steve._..Bucky nodded, maintaining eye contact with his guard the whole time. And slowly, Steve’s mouth turned up into a tiny smile.

“Okay…” He murmured. “Not much longer now. Not much longer, and I promise I’ll find a way to get you out.”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It took Steve the whole of the first day to locate what he _hoped_ was the right factory, and early on the second morning Steve found himself standing outside, his heart in his throat.

It had all the earmarks of the right place. It was a factory for manufacturing car parts in Washington, that had abruptly gone bankrupt around the time of Hydra's resurfacing. The fiasco with the helicarriers had been all over the news, the crisis only _just_ averted by an Avenger, Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D’s right hand woman, and a new player on the scene who was credited as “The Falcon.” The damage had been  _unbelievable,_ and in all of the wreckage, a _lot_ had been dismissed as unimportant. In the midst of the crisis, no one even seemed to notice the sudden, and timely closing of the factory.

Steve just hoped with everything in him that it was truly abandoned.

A low, steady breath escaped him as he cautiously paced the outside of the building. The entrances had been locked down, but he’d noticed that not everything seemed to have been done with care. Measures had been taken to seal the building down, but they looked hurried, and inaccurate. Mistakes had been made in the lockdown, Steve just had to find one that would allow him inside. His fingertips dragged down the frame of one of the back doors, trancing slowly down to the lock, before something clicked under his fingertips, and he jerked with surprise. His eyes snapped down, seeing the lock hanging, open, through the loop. He stooped, eyes narrowing as he studied it lock. It must not have been squeezed all the way closed in the exodus, but had held together by four years of dirt, and rust, until Steve’s touch had dislodged it just right.

Casting a nervous glance around the overgrown, fenced in perimeter, Steve slowly, removed the lock, and eased the door open.

He knew at a glance that this was exactly where he needed to be.

The whole setup seemed _off._ There was machinery, but it wasn’t the right kind, and Steve couldn’t discern its actual function, just that it _wasn’t_ for making automobile parts. It lacked subtle things that one would normally find on a production floor; not really noticable, just enough that Steve could tell this whole upper floor was mostly for show. A slight shiver ran up his spine, his soft footfalls echoing in the large, empty room.

 _An elevator._ He needed to find an elevator.

He could feel the hair standing on the back of his neck as he slunk through the empty factory, expecting to trip an alarm, or run into a Hydra agent at any moment. The place seemed thoroughly abandoned, but still...Bucky was living proof of what Hydra did to people. He’d heard the stories, and he’d seen the wreckage...he knew if anyone was still lurking in this facility he could be in serious danger. But if there was even a _scrap_ of information on Bucky in this entire goddamn complex, _it would be worth it._

It took almost a half hour for Steve to weave his way through the silent factory floor, and finally stumble across the elevator. This facility was still on the city grid. It had been largely overlooked in its sudden shut down, so Steve assumed, and _hoped_ that there was still electricity being supplied to the complex. He wasn’t sure he would be able to access the hidden level any other way. So Steve stepped haltingly into the elevator, and pressed the basement level button.

He startled as the elevator closed, stepping back to brace himself against the rail. He could feel his heart slamming in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. _God-_ he hoped this was worth it. The elevator slid down the shaft, coming to a rattling stop at the basement level, the doors creaking open. But it wasn’t Steve’s stop. He had to go out the back panel, one way or another.

Letting out a low breath, Steve turned his back, running his fingers along the lateral seam in the back wall. Without Bucky’s information he’d never have given it a second thought, but if Bucky was right, the rooms he needed were beyond the back panel. Biting down hard on his lower lip, Steve worked his fingers carefully into the seam, prying as he felt a slight give. It was stubborn, but not impossible. If he could just-

Steve jammed the end of his nightstick into the tiny gap he’d created, shoving it in and pushing with all his strength. The door groaned reluctantly as they were pushed against their design, Steve letting out a shuddering breath as he pushed. Something clicked sickly in the disused mechanisms, a whiff of stale, stagnant air slipping into the elevator through the gap he was creating. The track the doors were set on _groaned,_ and _clicked_ as Steve pried them wider, and suddenly, something stalled with a nasty _snap._ The doors stopped dead. They didn’t open any further, and they didn’t slam back into place. They’d jammed; opened just wide enough for Steve to slip through.

Steve let the nightstick slip with a huff, his heart in his throat as he squeezed through the narrow gap. All he could imagine was the jam letting go and crushing his body between the heavy metal slabs, but it held, and he let out a ragged breath as he stumbled onto the other side.

_And suddenly, Steve felt his mouth go slack._

The sprawling room was exactly as Bucky had described, only covered in dust, and abandoned in what seemed to have been a state of panic. The massive, low ceilinged room had once been a clean, sterilized research lab. The floors were white under the heavy dust; all tables stainless steel. Signs of life- _abruptly deserted_ \- littered the huge space. A mug was left setting by a computer’s keyboard, stained by the evaporated remains of what had been a full cup of coffee four years ago. Books lay open on tables, test samples uncapped, and reports unfinished. The entire level looked like every soul who had inhabited it had simply dropped everything and bolted. Most likely, the Hydra technicians and scientists had heard of the rise and sudden crash of Hydra and gone scattering; their work useless to them if it meant landing in prison. It also meant that, more likely than not, files Bucky had speculated to exist had been left right here.

Steve let out a low breath, his footsteps muted on the heavy dust layer on the floor, his shoes leaving distinct prints behind. There was a cell in the corner of the room just as Bucky had said, and in the center, _a chair._

He approached it slowly. It was nothing like any chair Steve had imagined; highly mechanized, and complete with cuffs, and some kind of metal vice at head level. The vice was equipped with dull metal prongs attached to electrodes, and Steve felt the nervous anxiety in the pit of his stomach twist towards horror. _God- he hoped whatever this thing did, Bucky had never been subjected to._..but remembering the expression on his charge’s face, Steve knew it was an empty hope.

He turned away from the chair, peeking cautiously into the filing cabinets, which were still stuffed full of records. Something on James could be in there, but Steve stepped back, his eyes falling on the line of computers along the one sterling steel table. He stepped over, gently touching the touchpad, and he jerked in surprise as the screen came to life. _They really had dropped everything_...Nothing had been shut down. This computer was still logged on, though it had been in sleep mode for approximately four years. The Hydra technician's unexpected flight had left Steve an open passage to their digital records...assuming any of them pertained to the Winter Soldier.

“Okay…” Steve breath softly, bending closer to the screen and clicking cautiously through files, eyes scanning for anything relevant. “Okay, come on come on come on...give me something I can use…” His gaze flickered from file to file, code names meaning nothing to him as he glazed over them. There was so much that lacked significance to him, so many names, and titles, and codes- until suddenly, Steve’s eyes caught on one that made his breath hitch in his chest.

_Winter Solider Maintenance_

With shaking fingers Steve clicked on the file, the little tab expanding into several more file compartments. _Discipline Procedure. Cryo Procedure. Arm Maintenance. Memory Wipe Procedure._ Steve’s mouth went slowly slack, his fingers brushing softly across the trackpad to open the memory wipe file. It...He didn’t think something like that was possible, but...Bucky had said he didn’t remember anything...Steve assumed his mind had naturally blocked the trauma, but. _..a physical wipe of his memories?.._.If such a thing was really possible, and really _had_ been done to Bucky, his case for him just got so much stronger.

As the file opened, Steve found himself facing rows upon rows of video files, each and every one dated. The dates ran between sometime in the mid 1940’s up to four years ago. Four years ago when the newly resurfaced Hydra had fallen. Four years ago when Bucky had been taken prisoner.

He scrolled back on the top, his cursor hovering over the most recent video. A part of him didn’t want to see. A part of him knew what he saw would haunt him for the rest of his life. But suddenly, his resolve hardened, and Steve clicked the file.

A video player expanded open on the screen, the file beginning automatically, and Steve found himself looking at the very room he was standing in, only four years ago, clean, and swarming with scientists and technicians. And then-

_Bucky._

He was lead into the view of the shot, dressed in heavy, leather body armor, and flanked by five soldiers, each with guns trained on him. He wasn’t fighting. His eyes were dim, and glassy; fixed straight ahead. There was a fine splatter of blood across one cheek, and Steve watched with growing horror as a technician undid the straps of the leather body armor, stripping him down to his kevlar tactical pants. From there, one of his five handlers shoved him down into the sinister chair, cuffing him in, and for just a moment, Steve saw something crack in his glassy stare. His eyes came alive; no longer dim, and distant. They widened, suddenly aware- suddenly splintered with fear.

Steve could no longer attend to the voices of the technicians in the background of the recording. All he could do was stare as Bucky began to shiver, quaking like a leaf as he was strapped down tighter, his face going a sickly white. Suddenly, the mechanisms of the chair shifted. An unauthorized whimper of fear slipped Bucky’s lips, as the horrible vice rotated, turning down and suddenly clamping over his skull with a mechanized _hiss._

_The scream that ripped from Bucky’s throat turned Steve’s stomach._

He looked away sharply, catching his breath, gripping the steel table as Bucky’s tortured screaming made the speakers crackle, and fuzz. He felt nausea rising inside him, his fingers fumbling blindly for the mute button, but skimming uselessly over the keys. It just went _on,_ and _on._ His eyes turned back to the screen, his vision blurring as he watched Bucky... _his_ Bucky jerking helplessly in the chair, violently spasming under the sheer _agony._ After five minutes, His screams grew broken, and faltering, turning to moans, and high, keening whimpers, before he went limp in the chair, electricity still making his body jolt, and twitch in the restraints.

Steve closed the video.

He could feel the tears on the cheeks, but couldn’t remember when he started crying. All he knew was the memory of Bucky in that horrible thing. _Screaming. Screaming. Going limp._ And suddenly, his stomach clenched violently, and Steve doubled over, retching on the floor. Bile burned his throat, vomit dripping from his mouth and nose as the hot, stinging tears trickled down his cheeks.

 _How could anyone do something like that to another human being?_ How? The technicians had continued milled in the background, not so much as looking at him. The scientists had scratched impersonal notes, and observations on clipboard as Bucky had screamed until his voice broke. They looked at him like a piece of meat...Or like a machine...like he was no more human than the device with which he was tortured. And for how long? How long had Bucky been subjected to this? How many times had he been forced into that chair and forced to undergo all that torment, and agony?

He let out a shaking breath, his nose and throat burning, his mouth tasting sick as he haltingly straightened. One, quivering hand moved back to the trackpad, scrolling down through the list of files to one a year before the first, bringing it open with a short, double tap.

But _that_ was Bucky as well.

The video was very similar. Technicians recording levels, and reactions, and changes in vitals. Bucky being strapped into the chair...the vice moving down around his head. Steve didn’t leave it open long enough to hear the screaming. The files went back so far... _so far_...Was Bucky just _one_ in a _line_ of innocent people to have this done to them? _Who had come before him?_ _How far back did this program go?_

More out of twisted curiosity than anything else, Steve scrolled the the very oldest video in the file, one marked from January 1946.

The video file expanded on the screen, but the quality was much older- much grainier. The sound was crackly, and fuzzy- like an old radio program, but screams of protest blasted from the speakers the second the video started. Steve jerked in surprise at the sound before focusing back on the video. Three soldiers of Hydra dragged a kicking, screaming young man into the room. He was wrenching against them, screaming in raw agony as the struggling disrupted the long stump of his amputated left arm. His short, dark hair was matted, stringy, and oily. His eyes were wide, and glimmering with fear as he struggled, and screamed.

“DOUGAN! DERNIER! GABE! God- _Help me!”_ He was hyperventilating, shaking violently as he tried to break free of his captors. _He was so young._..He couldn’t have been much more than twenty five. He was dragged towards the chair- shoved down- cuffed, and strapped across his chest.

“No! _NO!_ Stop it! _GABE!_ NO!”

Steve watched as the young man’s head snapped back and forth, suddenly wrenching upwards as a more primitive version of the very same vice rotated down to close around his skull.

“No- no- _no! NO! N-”_

His protest broke off in another scream that made Steve’s stomach turn, and he turned down the volume to a low, pitching keen of background noise. He braced his hands on the table, catching his breath, though his stomach threatened to empty itself again. He ducked his head, trying to process what he’d seen, but all his mind kept coming back to was Bucky in that chair...to tired, and broken to even fight... _screaming_ …

Suddenly, Steve blinked, registering dimly the the low background noise of the video had changed as he’s caught his breath, and reigned back the nausea in his stomach. His eyes lifted back to the screen.

The young man had gone silent, having been slumped in the chair for some time before a technician released the vice, his head rolling sickly forward. Steve turned up the volume. A very short, bespectacled man approached the restrained, slumped figure, reaching out and grabbing his face, lifting the young amputee’s limp head. “Look at me, soldier.” The accent was Swiss- thick, yet nasal.

The soldier’s eyes fluttered thickly as his face was lifted. “Can you tell me who you are?”

His eyes opened, and even from the grainy footage, Steve could see a network of blood vessels that had burst in his eyes, leaving his scleras woven with lines of blood. Saliva ran from his slack mouth, snot, and tears dripping from his nose and eyes...For a very long moment, he stared up at the stout, Swiss scientist, eyes dim and glassy, before his damp, swollen lips twitched.

_“James Barnes...S-Sargent...32557241…”_

Steve stomach dropped.

_Oh god. He could see it._

He could _see_ the outline of the shattered, broken man he would become in the young soldier’s face. He could _see_ the cleft in his chin that was normally hidden beneath rough stubble, and the high cut of his cheekbones; still concealed by the softness of youth, and the recent memory of decent meals. He could _see_ his Bucky in this young soldier’s face, and it made the horror that had been twisting in his gut suddenly crawl up his throat. Because it wasn’t possible. _But it was,_ because _Bucky_ stared up at him from the screen.. _.a soldier from the 1940’s_...and however it was possible... _he’d endured this for seventy years._

The doctor shoved his face away with an irritated snarl, Bucky’s temple striking the edge of the vice, and he let out a sharp cry before slumping again. “It is in need of more work. Take him back to his cell.” Steve watched blindly through several more minutes of footage as technicians made notes and Bucky’s limp body was dragged out of view, and when the video player closed, Steve was left staring blankly at the screen.

_How? How had this happened?_

He numbly clicked a few videos above the oldest, one after the next, watching Bucky’s state as he was brought into the room. The next few were much like the first- with struggling, and screaming, and yelling for comrades, and brothers in arms. And then...Bucky began to fade. He twitched weakly against his captors, whispering to himself, and babbling in fear as he was strapped into the chair. In one video file, the roughly cauterized stump of his left arm was gone. From there on out it was replace with the sleek, metal prosthetic Steve had come to know.

He started skipping to the ends, watching Bucky _after_ the vice was removed... _He remembered less and less…_

For the first few he would repeat his name, rank and serial number after every wipe, reminding himself of who he was. But by the fourth or fifth video, he started misspeaking numbers. He couldn’t remember his rank. By the tenth he just swayed in the chair, murmuring _‘James, James, James,’_ over and over in a slurred tone. _By the twentieth, there was nothing._

The twenty seventh video Steve clicked was different.

At the start of the video, Bucky was already seated, and cuffed in the chair. His hair had been getting progressively longer over the videos, and in this one, it had been shaved down to nothing but a patchy, uneven fuzz across his scalp. An officer with blond hair and the air of a superior stood in front of him as he swayed sickly in the chair...his hands were scarlet with blood.

 _“Why...did I do that…”_ The halting question escaped Bucky’s lips; broken, and soft, and the man in front of him paced a step closer, his hands folded behind his back.

“You obeyed the command of a superior office. You did well, Soldier.”

Bucky blinked, shaking as he looked down at his bloody, cuffed hands. “I...I didn’t want to kill her…”

“That woman was a weapon’s developer for our enemies. She and her kind would destroy the peace we work for.” The man said firmly, bending close, and bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, right in Bucky’s personal space. “ _There’s no shame in what you did.”_

“She was _scared…”_

The whisper made something inside the officer _snap._ He hauled back and struck him so hard his head smacked against the chair with a sick _crack._ His shoulders rebounded off the back, and his head dropped forward. For a long moment, he was still, and then Bucky shuddered, tears suddenly spilling down his cheeks. “She- She was _scared”_ He whispered again, nausea, and horror lacing his whispered words. _“...And I killed her…_ ”

“Wipe him.” The order was snapped viciously, and the technicians scurried to comply, Steve catching only a hurried murmur of _‘yes, Commander Pierce.’_ Before Bucky’s slumped figure was righted, and the vice closed down around his skull once again.

_Steve couldn’t watch any more._

He closed out of the video- out of the file- his eyes closing as he caught his breath. He’d always hoped there was some way Bucky could be innocent... _but he’d never expected it to be this gruesome._..Bucky had been taken- a young, injured soldier- and _tortured,_ and _brainwashed._ He’d been forced to forget. _..forced to kill._..He’d been wiped _over,_ and _over,_ until he went compliantly to the slaughter, though he still couldn’t help but scream in agony, even after so many years…He didn’t know how yet, but somehow, they’d kept him alive... _young_ even...only to subject him to it all over again.

Steve stared at the file...the _awful_ file full of segments of information that he’d dipped into only _one_ of... _There was so much here._..Discipline Procedure. Cryo Procedure. Arm Maintenance. There was more too...but Steve could take very little more of this. He clicked the cryo procedure file.

This one contained documents, and spreadsheets, and only a few video files. Steve didn’t think his haunted mind could focus on trying to decipher information, so he clicked on one of the video instead. This showed the view of something that looked like an upright, metal coffin. It was cold, and unforgiving, and Steve’s heart clenched as Bucky was lead into view of the camera. It must be more recent, because he was dead-eyed, and compliant. His body was strapped with muscle that he’d lacked as a young, terrified soldier. His hair was long again, and there was nothing behind those beautiful blue gray eyes...

He stepped into the coffin, a technician explaining the procedure to the camera, but Steve couldn’t focus, all he could do was watch as the door was closed. All he could do was watched, as Bucky’s expression twisted with fear behind the thick, square window...All he could do was watch as the chamber was turned on, and the inside was suddenly laced with ice. Bucky’s face froze, his skin, and lashes crusting instantly as his body stiffened, and he was frozen... _tossed on the ice like a slab of meat until Hydra was ready to use him again…_

 _He was never going to forget this…_ It was going to haunt him, every time he was alone in his house at night...every time he gazed at the beautiful man in the cell...it wouldn’t leave him...it would never leave Bucky either…

But Steve couldn’t take any more right now. Fumbling in his pocket, Steve pulled out an empty flash drive, jamming it into the USB port and copying the entire Winter Soldier file onto the drive. While he waited for the content to transfer, he made his way on shaky legs back to the filing cabinet. He tore through it, finally seizing a thick stack of files that had been under ‘W,’ piecing through them to find photos, and written descriptions of the memory wipe, cryo, and other procedures. _He took it all._

Shoving the thick stack of files under his arm, Steve’s eyes skimmed the computer screen, and the second the transfer completed, he yanked the drive from the port. _He had to get out of here._ If he didn’t leave right now, he was gonna lose it. He could feel his eyes blurring with unshed tears as he stepped over his own puddle of vomit, feel them slipping down his face as he squeezed back through the jammed elevator doors. Steve punched the first floor button, barely registering the awful _screech,_ and scrape of metal on metal as the warped doors ground, and shrieked against the shaft wall. But finally, the opposite doors opened, and Steve’s shaking legs took him out of the elevator and over the factory floor to the little back door with the bad lock.

It had all seemed so important just hours ago...finding an open door...getting in, and hoping not to trip an alarm...now all that mattered was _Bucky,_ and the files in his hands...The stack of papers- the flash drive documenting seventy years of torture...It _had to_ be enough...if it wasn’t, all those years of abuse were for nothing…And all Steve knew was that he had to get back to Bucky.

_Now._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't wait to read your thoughts and comments! See you next Wednesday. <3


	9. Promise

Steve felt ill.

He not only felt _physically_ ill, the taste of vomit still lingering in his mouth, but he felt sick deep into his soul. He felt like some part of him had twisted into a sick, nauseous knot that would never unwind. His mind just kept looping the screaming _...over,_ and _over_...Bucky begging- _screaming_ for his comrades as he was strapped down, and forced to forget. _Forced to kill._

It was no wonder Bucky was always trying to submit to what he thought Steve wanted. In a twisted sense, Steve had assumed the position of Bucky’s handlers, and after years of extreme torture, he’d learned that any expression of free-will ended only with brutalization, and pain. 

He didn’t want Bucky to see him as an unusually gentle hander, who- instead of simply not _punishing_ him when he behaved- _rewarded_ him. He didn’t want Bucky to fear doing anything other than what Steve wanted for fear that that gentleness would be removed from him. He wanted Bucky to see him for what he was...a human being who was going to mess up...who’s will wasn’t all-important...who would probably upset him now and again and have to work to make it up to him...He wanted Bucky to see him as someone he could trust; as a friend. And- if he ever recovered to the point that this was possible... _someone to love…_

But that wasn’t in the cards so long as Bucky was in prison.

So long as he was in prison, Steve would still be forced into a position of power, and Bucky, in turn, a position of submission. His perspective of needing to conform to Steve’s will no matter what couldn’t change until he no longer depended on Steve for the very staples of his life. He’d had guards deprive him of food, and inflict pain. He’d had them threaten him, and make his living conditions an unbearable hellhole. He’d seen what happen when he didn’t conform to a guards will, and he was desperate not to let it happen with Steve. He’d be good. He’d be obedient. And the thought made Steve sick.

His eyes were dim, and glazed over as he walked from his car to the prison complex. How he’d made it from the outskirts of Washington to his workplace without crashing was beyond him. He’d been distracted. He couldn’t help it. His mind was plagued with the echoing screams of the man in his care.

_“Hey-”_

The short bark wrenched Steve out of his thoughts, and he whipped around, letting out a heavy breath as he saw who was addressing him. A woman. She was of medium height, and slender build with a lot of heavy, dark hair, and full, berry-toned lips. She looked to be an alcoholic by the bottle in her hand, and an insomniac by the bags under her eyes. She looked tired. Or maybe just tired of putting up with everyone’s shit. Steve blinked.

“Sorry?” He managed eloquently, trying to pull his mind back to the present. The woman’s mouth tightened slightly, and she strode over to him, the small whisky bottle swinging loosely in her hand.

“Jessica Jones? Alias Investigations?” She prompted, arching an eyebrow as though she’d expected Steve to have know this. Come to think of it...there had been a small thumbnail image of her on her website...maybe he should have recognized her.

He shook his head once, shaking out the cobwebs that cluttered his mind. “Ms. Jones- Of course, I-”

“I’m returning half of your commision.”

Steve stopped dead. His lips parted in surprise as Jessica slipped her free hand into the lining of her jacket, handing him an envelope. “I’ve been calling but you haven't answered. Thought I’d swing by your office." She said shortly, before the set of her mouth tighten, and she loosened the cap of the whisky bottle. "As it turns out, a name, and a four year old picture doesn’t give me a lot to work off of. I didn’t turn anything up. I’d say better luck with another P.I. but...frankly, I think I’d be a waste of your money.” She finished, her gaze scathing, and agitated. Clearly, she didn’t appreciate wild-goose chases, or cases she couldn’t complete. And Steve could have almost kissed her.

“ _No_ -” He said quickly, stepping forward, and holding the envelope back out to her. “No- No, I’m sorry. I didn’t give you a lot to work with, but I know more now, I know what I’m looking for. Please- can you try just one more thing for me?”

For a long second, the dark hair woman eyed the envelope suspiciously, before her eyelids lowered, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips. Slender, pale fingers tugged the envelope from his hand. “Alright…” She murmured with a flick of her eyebrows, tucking the money back into her jacket. “You’ve got more info for me?”

"Yeah- in your search, do you come across a soldier from the early nineteen hundreds?" Steve prompted, and he had to fight back the distraction and unsettled sickness inside him as he pictured the pale, terrified young man.

Jessica's brow knit. "Yeah- war hero, died _who-the-fuck-cares-how-many_ years ago."

 _“Seventy.”_ Steve blurted abruptly, taking a faltering step forward, still clutching the thick stack of awful files to his chest, the zip drive tucked in his pocket feeling as heavy as the rapidly beating heart in his chest. He swallowed, wetting his lips falteringly. “He _supposedly_ died seventy years ago, and... _he’s_ the James Buchanan Barnes I’m looking for…” Instantly, he could tell he was one wrong word away from losing Jessica’s services. Her brow knotted, mouth parting slightly as her upper lip curled, her dark eyes boring skeptically into him, and Steve hurriedly jammed his hand into one of the top file. _“No-”_ He said quickly, fishing out a photo. _“Look._ Look at him, I know it sounds impossible, but... _it’s him.”_

Slowly, Jessica took the photo, and after staring at it for a long second, fished a print of the photo Steve had originally given her out the bag that hung at her hip. She held the two in one hand, her brow drawing further, and Steve saw the dawning realization in her eyes. After a heavy moment longer, the dark haired woman let out a low breath, handing back both photos and taking a swallow out of the small bottle of whisky. _“Fuck…”_ She murmured under her breath, Steve taking the baffled expletive as agreement. He nodded shallowly.

“My sentiments exactly…” He murmured, staring at the two pictures side by side. How could the figure in each be the same person, yet be so completely different...The Bucky from Hydra's files looked young, and strong, with smooth, clear skin, and bright eyes; he had two organic arms, and his hat set at a jaunty angle on top of his short, neatly styled, chestnut hair. His mouth was turned up in a cocky smirk. In S.H.I.E.L.D’s photo, taken shortly after his arrest, he was weary, and dead-eyed. His face was prematurely lined, his skin ashen- cheeks sunken. His eyes were hollow, and splintered with the footprint of torture, and abuse. His hair was overlong, and uncared for. His mouth looked like it had never shaped a smile...But they were the same, and it hurt to think of all the things that had been done to kill the smiling boy in the old photo.

Steve swallowed hard, shuffling the files in his grip, their contents making them feel all the more heavy. “I...I found enough information to give to a lawyer that...I think I can prove his innocence, but...I’d still like to know the other stuff. Maybe it’s not relevant to his case, but...I’d like to know. Can you look into him? Anything before his military career? If the other half of the commission isn’t enough I can get you more.” He offered, Jessica listening to her new instructions, before her mouth turned up into a rueful smile.

“I’ll let you know.” She said dryly, and Steve’s heart gave a little flutter in his chest.

“You’ll do it?” He asked hopefully, and Jessica’s mouth twisted off to the side, her heavily lidded eyes rolling upwards as though considering it.

“I thought I was done with the super weird shit, but...yeah. I’ll take it. If I don’t turn anything else up this time though, I’m keeping the money.”

Steve almost laughed. As it was, he just dipped his head with a faint smile. “You’ll have earned it.” He murmured, lifting his gaze and giving the hard-edged woman a tiny nod, his eyes soft, and grateful. “ _Thank you.”_ He said quietly, and for a second, Jessica seemed on the verge of speaking, or acknowledging the thanks, before she abruptly glanced away, taking another stiff swallow of her drink as she turned.

“Your cash, pal.” She muttered over her shoulder, gesturing a loose salute with two fingers, before stuffing her free hand in the pocket of her ratty jeans, and strolling off down the street, leaving Steve with a small smile, and an armful of the most disturbing files he had ever read.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The swing shift guard was getting annoyed at Steve’s unpredictability. Showing up early. Showing up in the evening of a night he’d been supposed to be taking off. Steve tried to convince him that he was prepared to work- that he’d even take his night shift, but- frustrated, and annoyed, he’d snapped at him to go home, leaving no room for argument. So Steve, not wanting to further any suspicion that might be cooking among his superiors, and co workers, went home. But sleep didn’t come.

He pieced through the files all night. They were more factual- less, _raw,_ and _violent_ than the videos...Steve couldn’t go back to the videos...He knew he may have to, eventually, but for right now, he couldn’t stomach the thought of seeing Bucky subjected to any more torture. He doubted he’d ever be able to face the file on disciplinary procedures. If what he’d watched earlier in the day had been considered mere _maintenance_...he hated to imagine what constituted _discipline…_

Everything in him wanted to take this to a lawyer immediately, but he stifled the urge. Bucky deserved to know. He had the ultimate, final say on whether this information ever went beyond the two of them. If Bucky said no, Steve would respect that, and he’d box up the awful files, and put them away- never touch them again...but he hoped... _god_ he hoped Bucky would let him help.

Steve forced himself to rest a little bit through the night, though he was never fully asleep. The information he’d found that day still haunted _him...would_ haunt him...possibly for a very long time. But just closing his eyes and drifting a bit did help with his exhaustion levels that had been gradually rising over the past week. After he’d stirred himself some hours later, Steve made himself a stiff cup of coffee and prepared for his day of work.

That morning, he showed up on time, receiving a grunt of approval from his coworker before he punched out, just when he should.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The instant the door closed behind the swing shift guard, Steve moved to Bucky’s door, taking in a low breath. “Bucky?” He called softly, inclining his head, his ear almost touching the harsh metal. After a fraction of a second, he heard a short scuffle of movement behind the door, and a faint smile tugged on his lips, his hand moving to tug open the slot. Almost instantly, Bucky’s right hand curled over the edge.

 _“Steve?”_ His voice was small, and tentative, as though thinking it was too good to be true, and Steve reached down, gently taking his hand.

“Yeah, Buck- It’s me.”

Bucky shifted his hand, fingers curling hungrily around Steve’s as he let out a raw breath of relief at the sound of his voice. It had been the longest he’d been separated from his guard in almost five months. And whereas before, months of complete silence had been the norm, _two days_ was now a _torture._ He _abhorred_ the lack of touch, even though the mere thought of receiving it from anyone other than Steve made his heart flinch with fear. He’d missed the little bit off cool, fresh air that wafted into his cell from the slot that Steve would leave open all day. He missed having the lights dimmed in his cell overnight. He- He missed _Steve…_

Bucky clung hungrily to his hand, his forehead rested against the door, listening to Steve’s breathing on the other side. “I-” He started haltingly, licking his lips. _“I missed you…”_

Steve’s throat tightened, his mouth forming an aching smile at the gentle confession. “Yeah…” He breathed. “Missed you too...Did he give you enough to eat?”

Bucky gave a small hum of confirmation, giving Steve’s hand a little squeeze. “I’ve had enough.” He confirmed softly. His night guard may ignore him, but he followed the guidelines of his job, and that included shoving food through the slot twice a day. He’d had other guards who hadn’t followed the parameters quite so well. His relief guard was no _Steve,_ but he did his job, and, broadly speaking, he was grateful.

Steve nodded, soothing the little itch of worry inside him. He worried about Bucky when he was under anyone’s supervision but him. They didn’t know what Bucky needed...They didn’t know what kind of person he actually was. _“Good…”_ Steve murmured gently, smiling as Bucky’s thumb rubbed over the back of his knuckles... _He was so hungry for affection.._.Steve loved it, but he had to remind himself that Bucky desperation for touch hid an emotional vice ready to snap on either, or _both_ of them. But Steve could never make himself pull away...especially now knowing Bucky’s only experience with touch in the past.

Steve heard Bucky’s soft intake of breath on the other side of the door, words faltering, unspoken, in the back of his throat, and he gave his hand a little, encouraging squeeze. After a second, Bucky let out the breath, wetting his lips uncertainly. “Uhm...did you...did you find anything?”

At the halting question, Steve found himself going still, the images he’d seen creeping back to the forefront of his mind. He wanted to spare Bucky from that...but it wasn’t his right. It wasn’t his place to try to rig what Bucky remembered, and what he didn’t. His best course of action was the gentlest honesty he could manage.

“Hang on…” Steve softly disentangled his fingers from Bucky’s, the other man releasing him reluctantly, his hand closing around nothing, as though still trying to feel the phantom trace of Steve’s warm grip. Steve turned away, his heart in his throat as he haltingly retrieved the key to Bucky’s cell from his desk. He’d gone against the book for Bucky’s sake before, and going into a prisoner’s cell, simply to be there...that was the kind of thing that would get him sacked without question. But...he’d committed to this insane, _impossible_ thing he was trying to do. Really, what more harm could this possibly do to his potentially shattered record? He was already too deep. _He might as well keep going._

Letting out a low breath, Steve unlocked Bucky’s cell.

Inside, shock, and startled panic washed through Bucky’s chest. _His door was opening_ \- He hadn’t heard any instruction, and his door was opening. _He wasn’t in feeding position. He hadn’t made himself helpless._

As Steve slipped quietly into his cell, Bucky hit his knees so hard a shock ran through his body. _“I’m not ready-_ ” He blurted, his hands moving to fold behind his head. He felt a tremor run up his spine. _Had he not been listening? Had he missed Steve’s order?_

But suddenly, Steve’s face washed with understanding, and sympathy, and he held out his hands, mouth going slack with dismay. “Bucky- Bucky, no- _It’s okay.”_ He said hurriedly, Bucky stopping mid-motion, about to double over to lay himself face first on the hard, rough ground. Steve swallowed, letting out a breath as he eased forward. _“It’s okay…_ ” He assure him once more, his tone gentle, and soothing. “It’s okay Buck. You don’t have to do that…”

Bucky lifted his eyes, his heart still racing, hands still knotted together in a death grip behind his head. He watched, his lips parting in confusion as Steve very slowly eased down onto his knees in front of him. His expression was soft, and sincere, and Bucky felt his chest tighten as he gently laid his hands on his elbows, slowly easing his arms back to their natural resting place at his sides.

“It’s alright…” He soothed, offering him a tiny smile. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you that I was coming in... You don’t need to be in feeding position. Let’s just go sit on the bed, okay?”

Bucky could do nothing but stare for a long moment, before he swallowed hard, his head dipping in a tiny nod. _He was so close.._.This was only the second, or maybe third time anyone had been in the same space as Bucky in four years. There had been this...the day in the yard, and a few brief moments of a medical examination early in his incarceration, but beyond that… Bucky eased slowly off his knees, feeling a little, twinging ache run through them from hitting the cement floor with such force. He watched, wide eyed, and cautious as Steve checked the door briefly, before sitting down on the edge of Bucky’s bed. His guard’s eyes turned up to him, and he nodded to the space beside him with a little encouraging smile. Haltingly, Bucky eased over. He felt naked without handcuffs, and tethers this close to Steve. It should have been a freeing, powerful sensation, but the lack of boundaries only made him nervous. He was quivering just slightly as he sunk down next to Steve.

Steve smiled faintly, his hand twitching in his lap, as though tempted to reach out and touch him, but he kept them loosely folded instead. Bucky was stiff. His eyes were wide, and uncertain, his brow drawn into a little knot. He wasn’t used to this… Steve’s smile turned melancholy around the edges. “It’s okay,” He said gently, glancing over at him. “You’re alright, Buck, you’re not in any trouble.”

Bucky glanced up, his wide eyes flickering searchingly over Steve’s expression. His eyes dropped away, the prisoner giving a tiny, jerking nod. Steve felt his heart clench in his chest.

“Do you mind if I hold your hand?” Steve asked softly, hoping the physical contact would sooth him as it did when he was on the other side of the door. He wanted to show him that this wasn’t so different. That just because there was no solid wall of steel separating them, didn’t mean Steve was going to treating him any different, or any _worse._

Bucky looked over, a little of the tension in his brow easing, and he nodded compliantly, cautiously turning his hand palm up on the top of his thigh. Smiling gently, Steve reached over and took it, giving his hand a warm, reassuring squeeze. Bucky blinked, his eyes falling to the contact. It felt just the same...just as gentle, and comforting as ever. He was startled that Steve was in the same space as him without an official purpose. He was blindsided by the lack of cautionary measures, but...it was still the same touch...It still felt strong, and safe, and made Bucky’s chest flush with warmth… He let a tiny smile touch his lips, flexing his fingers slightly in Steve’s hold.

“I _did_ find something…” Steve said quietly, trying to keep his expression soft although everything in him still wanted to cringe under the memory. “I...I actually found a _lot,_ and…” He swallowed, his tongue sliding out to wet his lips. “It’s not pretty, Buck...It’s...It’s _awful-_ but...I think it might be enough to prove your innocence…”

Bucky’s eyes scanned Steve’s expression searchingly, seeing the haunted edge in his eyes. His eyes held just a _trace_ of the emotion that consumed Bucky’s mind. He’d seen just a fragment for the horror that lurked inside Bucky’s head every waking moment, and it twisted his heart with hurt. Bucky let out a low breath. He felt the effects of those horrible things, even though he couldn’t remember them...he wasn’t sure he wanted to. “What was it?” He asked huskily, his mind braced for any horrors Steve might have found.

Steve cast him a painful glance. “Files...Records...Just like you said. There were videos of what they did to...to make you forget.”

Bucky’s head snapped around, eyes widening as he stared at Steve’s expression. “ _Made me?”_ He asked softly, gray blue eyes boring into Steve’s, and his guard nodded shallowly, letting out a raw breath.

 _“Hydra’s_ the reason you can’t remember anything, Buck...They did something to you...They used some kind of machine on you for- for _years_ until you forgot everything...I have the files...I have videos, and written records that can prove it, it- _it wasn’t your fault._ ” Steve eyes lifted up to his, his gaze laced with aching hurt. _“None_ _of it_ was your fault…”

And suddenly, the skepticism slipped from Bucky’s face, his expression going soft and slack as he stared at Steve, his eyes slowly lowering. “ _Not my fault…_ ” He murmured breathlessly, his head lowering numbly. _“Not my fault….”_

Slowly, Steve took a risk, and reach out, his hand coming up to gently touch the underside of Bucky’s chin. His charge blink, unfocused eyes clearing as he let Steve lift his face, turning his haunted eyes back to Steve. His caretaker met him with a weak smile, his throat tight. “Yeah…” He murmured, squeezing Bucky’s hand as he tenderly brushed his overlong hair out of his eyes. “You’re innocent...You’re _innocent,_ Buck- and with a little help...I think we can prove it... Do you…” Steve’s tongue slid uncertainly over his lower lip. “Do you _want_ that?” He asked softly. “Do you want me to take this to someone who can help?”

Bucky looked like he wanted to cry.

He was shaking again, but only a little. He looked shocked, and overwhelmed, his eyes wide as he struggled to comprehend Steve’s words through the roaring in his ears. _“Who?”_ He asked haltingly, an edge of fear flickering just around the edges of his stare. Who could possibly help? Who- besides Steve- could _ever_ want to help _him?_

Steve gently free his hand from Bucky’s hold, moving up to tenderly take Bucky’s face in both hands, so desperately wanting to sooth away the look of fear, and blind uncertainty on his face. He eased in, his voice gentle, and soothing. “I don’t know,” He confessed softly. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll find someone...someone good, a- and safe...Someone who can show everyone that you never deserved this. You got that, Buck?” He breathed, Bucky craning hungrily into the touch. “ _You don’t deserve this_...you don’t deserve to be here, and if we play our cards right, you don’t _have to_ be.” He closed his eyes, forehead almost brushing Bucky’s as he tenderly cupped his charge’s face, feeling his breath on his lips. “Just tell me…” He murmured, hearing Bucky let out a low, shuddering breath. “Just give the word, and I’ll take this to someone who can help. But I want your permission on this...if you say no, I promise it never leaves this room. It stays between you and me, but...I want to help you Buck...I just won’t do it unless you want me to…”

Bucky blinked, overwhelmed by the possibility of freedom- by Steve’s closeness, and affection- and conflicted by his query. He didn’t know what answer Steve wanted. He didn’t know what would make him happiest, or make him continue in his gentle affection...so Bucky had to do something he had very little experience in...something on one in his living memory had given him opportunity to do...he had to answer with what _he_ wanted.

_“Please…”_

For a long moment, the single, whispered word was all Bucky could manage. He squeezed his eyes closed, another tremor passing up his spine, and he found himself unconsciously gripping Steve’s thigh, leaning into his touch, their forehead pressed together. “Please-” He tried again, his heart in knots. “I- _I wanna be free…”_

Steve could have sobbed with relief.

His hold shifted softly on Bucky’s face, a huff that almost turned into a laugh slipping from his lungs as their noses brushed softly, Bucky’s ragged breath still warm on his lips. He nodded shakily, his mouth curling up into a tiny smile. “Okay…” He whispered between them, blinking his eyes open only to find Bucky already staring at him; wide eyed with cautious hope. Steve gave him another tiny, encouraging nod. “Okay...Okay, I promise. I promise I’m gonna do everything I can...I’m gonna get you out... _Promise_ …”

Bucky nodded, staring up at him- breathless, and dry-mouthed. His lips were so close...so warm and soft, and all Bucky wanted to do was kiss them again. Steve had said it couldn’t happen again...It could get him in trouble, and not only that, but Steve seemed to have other reservations that Bucky couldn’t quite decipher but...He wanted so badly to feel that way again...that spark of warmth, and normalcy that kissing Steve had brought him.

Steve’s lashes lowered, his eyes meeting Bucky’s only to see the distraction that laced them. They were lowered to his mouth... _staring_. His lips were slack, and hungry, his eyes lingering on Steve’s plush, pink lips. His chin was tipped forward- like he so wanted to bring them together, but some invisible force restrained him. Steve should move back right now… He should break the point of tension between them, and gently excuse himself from Bucky’s cell but...his own eyes lingered wantingly on Bucky’s chapped, red lips...He eased unconsciously closer.

Seeing the tiny movement, Bucky’s restraint suddenly crumbled.

He tipped his chin forward, and softly closed his lips over Steve’s. The guard drew in a breath through his nose, his lashes fluttering feverishly against Bucky’s cheeks as he kissed him gently, his chapped lips framing Steve’s incredibly soft, full lower lip between them.

Steve’s heart was racing in his chest, endorphins spilling through his body as his head went light, and fuzzy. He felt like he was going to float away- grounded only by a thick rope of guilt tethering him to reality. He really shouldn’t be doing this...He _knew_ now- he’d _seen_ how badly Bucky’s emotions were developing. He knew it wasn’t healthy, and there was still the danger of being caught, but...the man he’d fallen in love with was _kissing him_...even if he couldn’t truly love him back….Besides...if all went well, Bucky would be free soon, he could get him out of this awful environment...start him on his way to truly healing...Couldn’t he indulge in this for just a short while?

Steve tipped his chin just slightly, just enough to draw his lower lip from between Bucky’s with a soft, wet breath, before he resealed the kiss, his lashes fluttering closed. He held Bucky’s face tenderly between his palms, Bucky squeezing his thigh for support as he leaned into the kiss, making soft, hungry noises in the back of his throat. His lashes fluttered against Steve’s cheek- His breath whispered across his skin. He could feel the warmth in his cheeks under the soft caress of his fingertips.

Steve broke the kiss reluctantly, his eyes still closed. He drew in a breath, opening his mouth to speak when Bucky pressed in again, kissing him suddenly, and Steve met it with a muffled gasp of surprise that cut off into a soft, helpless sigh of pleasure. Bucky pressed in, desperate not to let the kiss end...his metal left hand slid up, curling into the front of Steve’s shirt, some base instinct trying to convince him that if he just clung hard enough Steve might not pull away. He might be able to stay just like this- forever- melting into the gentleness of Steve’s kiss…

But after a long moment more, Steve’s touch against his face shifted softly to Bucky’s chin, taking it just firm enough to break the kiss, the guard letting out a reluctant breath of air. He tipped his face down, his forehead still resting against Bucky’s as he held his face, the prisoner still leaning hungrily for the possibility of just a taste more.

Steve was gone... _.He was so gone._..He was so in love with this man he didn’t know what to do, and the day Bucky could be free couldn’t possibly come soon enough…

 _“God-”_ Steve breathed heavily, his eyes closed, hands still framing Bucky’s face. _“God, I lo-_ ” He choked the words back, his throat aching in protest, his heart screaming the breath the confession into the intimate space between their kiss swollen lips. “I-” Steve swallowed again, “I’m...gonna get you free…” He finished finally, his heart wrenching violently inside him at the unspoken confession. “As soon as I can, Buck...I’m gonna get you out of here…”

Bucky nodded softly, but truthfully, the words had barely reached his ears. His head was spinning from the kiss, neglected body aching for more of the kindness Steve bestowed on him. He could focus on nothing but the warmth of Steve’s hands framing his jaw. The soft, reassuring pressure of his forehead against his...His mouth felt warm, and tingling, his heart beating rapidly inside his chest...He felt alive. He felt human, and Bucky yearned for every bit more of that that Steve would possibly give him.

He nodded again, almost out of embarrassment that he hadn’t focused on Steve’s words, hoping his caretaker wouldn’t notice. “I…” Bucky started softly, swallowing as Steve lifted those gorgeous, clear blue eyes to his. And suddenly, nervous embarrassment bloomed in his chest. His cheeks felt hot under Steve’s hands, his eyes suddenly darting away. He’d gotten used to his cautious requests being met with kindness from Steve, but this was a little outside the parameters of a normal request. He wasn’t asking for a book, or for the slot in his door to be opened. He wasn’t asking to hold Steve’s hand. “Could we…” Bucky faltered, Steve’s brow drawing slight against his, and he swallowed, letting out a breath. “Could we do that again?...O- or more often?...” He asked softly, desperately hoping that this wouldn't be the last time Steve would gift him with this feeling. He’d thought that first time would be the last, and now he had this too...if there was any chance at all...Bucky wanted to kiss Steve any, and _every_ time Steve would allow him.

Steve faltered under the request. The answer should be an immediate _no,_ but Steve was weakening. His heart was getting in the way of his head, and he _desperately_ wanted to forget all the trouble, and danger associated with engaging a prisoner. He wanted to kiss him again... _badly_...He...He _loved_ him...He wanted to kiss Bucky whenever he was comfortable with it. There was so much in the way, but…

Steve leaned in, and pressed just one more soft, short kiss against the other man’s lips, Bucky drawing in a quick breath before Steve pulled back. The guard let his hands slip from Bucky’s cheeks, moving gently to untangle Bucky’s fingers from his shirt. He gave his hand a soft squeeze, easing to his feet. _“Carefully.”_ He responded, his voice weighted with seriousness, and concern. “Once in awhile, and very, _very_ carefully…”

Bucky rose to his feet along with him, his fingers curling to keep Steve’s hand in his. He nodded, lungs tightening at the confirmation. “Carefully…” He repeated back to him, and after a heavy second, Steve’s expression softened into a smile. Bucky’s heart fluttered in his chest as the other man reached out, cupping his jaw in one, warm hand and drawing him in to softly kiss his forehead.

“Okay…” He murmured. “I can’t stay in here any longer. I’ll be right outside. I’m gonna start looking for someone to help.”

Bucky nodded blindly, but almost, for just a few minutes, didn’t care.

He’d gotten to kiss Steve again, not just once but _three_ times. If they were careful, they could do it again, and Bucky felt his heart softening like warm butter under the tenderness of Steve’s touch...under the sincerity of his smile.

Slowly, Steve eased back, Bucky watching him go with a faint smile as he slipped out of the cell. He almost didn’t mind when it closed, and locked behind him; when he was once again alone in the little cell. He could still hear Steve outside, the keys of his computer clicking as he started his research.

Someone was going to help…

Bucky was going to be free…

_And just this once more, he’d gotten to kiss Steve._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Let me know your thoughts, and I'll see you next wednesday! I hope everyone has happy holidays!


	10. Consultation

“What part of _Winter_ freaking _Soldier_ didn’t you catch?”

“The part where that means we don’t _at least_ hear him out.”

Foggy Nelson, of Nelson and Murdock, shifted his gaze subtly away from his partner, his eyes sliding over to the concerned, blond haired man who’d stepped cautiously into their office. He was sitting back now, a hand rested loosely over his mouth. His eyes were laced with worry, and anxiety, and Foggy quickly turned his gaze back as their potential client glanced up at him with something pleading in his eyes. His tongue slid out to wet his lips, and Foggy inclined his head slightly, his partner -Matt Murdock- tipping his ear as he felt the other man’s breath on his cheek.  

“How do you figure?” Foggy said in a short hiss. Frankly, he wasn’t sure he could see any sort of light at the end of the tunnel for a guy like the Winter Soldier.

“Because-” Matt murmured, his lips twitching just slightly as he spoke. “ _He’s desperate.”_

Foggy wasn’t scrapping that. Matt was clearly right. Their potential client's leg jittered slightly under the table, and his eyes flitted around the room. He reeked of anxiety, and restless exhaustion, but all the same, Foggy couldn’t help but ask.

“You listen to his heart to figure that out?”

At the tone in his partner’s voice, Matt's eyebrows lifted, his shoulders twitching in a tiny shrug as Foggy let out a low groan of frustration that caused their guest’s head to swivel at the sound.

“ _Dammit, Matt_ -” Foggy hissed, his mouth once again beside his ear. “I thought we agreed that that’s creepy, and weird-”

“I can’t help it. Now there may be nothing here, but we should at least hear him out beyond the words ‘ _Winter Soldier.’”_

To that, Foggy let out a breath, and nodded. Matt was right. If nothing else it was their professional duty as attorneys. Murmuring a soft _‘okay’_ to confirm his compliance, the two lawyers stepped back to the table, Matt feeling for the back of his chair before pulling it out, and seating himself next to his partner, and across from their client.

“Mr. Rogers, I’m sorry about the holdup. Please, go on.”

Steve wet his lips slightly, glancing up at the two of them. He’d seen it in the shorter man’s eyes the moment he’d referenced Bucky by his common alias. They believed about him what everyone else did; that he was a heartless assassin, and an agent of Hydra. Steve only hoped he could convince them otherwise. He drew in a shallow breath.

“Well- uh...His arrest was all over the news four years back- I- I’m sure you heard, but...he’s been in isolation since then, in a high security prison, and recently, he’s been under my watch…” Steve faltered, his eyes falling to the tabletop as his brow tugged into a frown. “But-” He continued haltingly. “But...he doesn't belong there…all that stuff everyone talks about him doing.. _.it wasn’t his call.”_

Matt shifted forwards in his seat, his long, slim fingers lacing in front of him, and Steve faltered, momentarily distracted by a series of raw scuffs across the blind man’s knuckles, before his low, easy voice snapped him back to the present. “And, do you have anything in terms of proof, or just intuition?”

Foggy would have chosen the word _faith_ \- or blind belief, but _intuition_ tended to keep their clients happier.

“Not at first.” Steve admitted, his fingers brushing across the messenger bag that rested on his lap, full of the disturbing files he’d recovered from the abandoned base. “At first, it was just a feeling. He wasn’t at all what I expected...I thought he was going to be violent, or- or sadistic, but...he was _quiet._ He was scared of being punished...he’d never had anyone even treat him like anything other than an animal, or a machine before.” Steve murmured, and Matt inclined his head slightly, listening to the way Steve’s body reacted to the story. His heart was picking up in his chest, beating harder. He could almost sense the heat coming off his skin. From listening to the signs, he could tell Steve believed everything he was saying with _complete_ certainty. He couldn’t tell if it was _true,_ but whether it was or not, Steve _believed_ it. But there was something else too…

“He told me he didn’t remember who he was, or much of anything that he’d done...He said he had no memory of his past- of family- of _anything_ Hydra did, and...I pursued it.” Steve said softly, glancing up, and feeling his chest tighten with an edge of panic. Murdock was listening, but he could tell he hadn’t convinced Nelson. He seemed more skeptical than his partner, although his gaze was still attentive. They _had_ to believe him. _They had to help._ Steve swallowed, his breath coming out a little shaky. “He told me about a facility that he remembered, and I went there looking for something that might help, and...I found these…” Steve reached into his bag, withdrawing the stack and placing it on the table between himself, and the two lawyers, the flash drive laying on top. “They’re records of the procedures they used to make him forget, and to keep him alive for so long...there are files of all kinds of things that I haven't been able to face looking at, but... _you have to believe me...it’s not his fault…”_

For a heavy second, silence fell in the little office, Steve’s heart slamming in his ears. Murdock had yet to move, and Steve could see just the suggestion of his unseeing eyes- fixed in concentration- behind his dark glasses. His head was tilted, as though the silence held something for him that was lost to Steve. Nelson was surveying the stack of files dubiously. After a long moment, the shorter man reached forward, taking the flash drive.

“Do you mind?” He asked, Steve’s eyes snapping over, and he granted him a little nod. He wasn't in any hurry to have Bucky’s tortured screams re-branded on his psyche, but if it would convince the two attorneys to help him...it’d be worth it.

Foggy extended the end of the zip drive, slipping it neatly into the port on his laptop and clicking the file as it appeared on the desktop. Steve watched with anxiety twisting in his stomach as Foggy leaned a little closer to the screen, reading the titles.

“Memory Wipe Procedure…” Steve supplied softly, and Foggy’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and he clicked into the file. “One of the earlier ones will show you best what I mean.”

At this, Foggy’s brow drew into a knot, his eyes flickering up to him. “This goes way back…” He started, and Steve nodded, tightlipped, and dead-eyed.

“Yeah…” He murmured flatly, already bracing himself for the awful sound. _“Yeah it does…”_

Skimming over the cryptic answer, Foggy gave a slight shrug, and did as Steve suggested. He loosely clicked one of the later dated files, leaning in curiously as Matt inclined an ear.

Steve didn’t have to see the screen to know which video he’d clicked. He’d seen it only days before. It wasn’t the very first, but three or four files above it. Bucky still had most of his memory intact, but he now knew what to expect when he was dragged towards the chair. _He knew to be afraid_ , but hadn’t yet learned how useless struggling was. As the video started, Steve squeezed closed his eyes, and wished himself deaf.

Bucky’s low, panicked whispered crackled through the speaker, distorted by the poor quality of the old recording, but Steve could still discern his pleas. ‘ _No- no please- god please-’_ His head bowed shakily. _‘No- not again- st-stop- stop it! NO!’_ The screaming that had been burned into Steve’s mind echoed back to his ears, and he felt his stomach clench with pain, every muscle in his body tightening against the sound, and the memory of the scene that played along with it.

Foggy had gone pale.

 _“Jesus…”_ He whispered breathlessly, staring in horror at the screen as the helpless young man shuddered, and jolted in the chair, screaming until his throat was stripped raw. Matt- expression tight- eased a little closer.

“What are they doing to him?” He asked in an undertone, relying on his partner to interpret the tortured screams into a picture he could envision. But Foggy just shook his head helplessly.

“What _are_ they doing to him?” Foggy asked, but his question fell to Steve, though his eyes were still locked on the screen in horror.

Steve closed his eyes. “They’re scouring his mind...making him forget who he is, I- I don’t understand the process but...they’re cutting out everything that makes him who he is...turning him into some kind of tool, a- a _weapon…”_ His tongue slid out, wetting his suddenly dry lips. “The files show this _over,_ and _over_ again for seventy years...He was forced to kill people, wiped by that thing, and the put in cryo until they were ready to use him again…” Steve was almost shivering, the raw hurt, and anger, and injustice make his body feel shaky, and ill. “It’s not his fault...You’ve gotta believe me...After all this... _he doesn't deserve to live the rest of his life locked away…”_

Foggy abruptly closed the video.

Matt could hear the roar of his partner’s heart, loud and clear; slamming in his chest. He could hear the rush of his blood, and sense the tension coming off of him. He could feel the energy of his stare as his gaze turned towards him. Slowly, Matt slid his hand under the table, tapping twice against Foggy’s kneecap. It was the closest they got to exchanging a knowing glance. A second later, he felt Foggy shift, and the confirming tap was echoed on his own knee. They were in agreement then. Matt sat forward.

“We’ll take the case.”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Steve still felt light-headed, even after the drive from the lawyer’s office to the prison. The day was still early, and Steve had gone to Nelson and Murdock even before his time to punch in for a full day of work. He’d been working tirelessly for well over a week now. He was _exhausted._ But he could rest when Bucky was free, until then, burning his candle at both ends was the least he could do.

He ducked briefly into his office, snatching up his radio and nightstick, and clipping them to his belt, but as he did, Steve felt his phone buzz at his hip. He blinked, tipping his chin down as he fished it out of his pocket. His thumb slid neatly across the lock, tapping out his passcode as his messages popped up across the screen. The most recent, under J.J.

_Sent: 7:46 AM_

_“Your guy was born March 10th 1917. He had a nuclear family, and he’s got a sister, nieces, nephews, and their kids too. His sister is still alive though; Rebecca Barnes. Lady’s 95 years old. You had to drag me into the freaky crap, huh, Rogers?"_

Steve smiled faintly at the text. It had been several days since he'd given Jessica the information she needed, and he'd almost forgotten what he's asked of her entirely. He'd been too busy researching law firms, trying to find something with a reputation for helping people, rather than leeching money from corrupt corporations. It had taken him the better part of a week to find Nelson and Murdock. He tapped out a response on his phone.

_Sent: 7:48 AM_

_“Sorry about that, I hate to say it, but your record does seem to suggest you’ve been through weirder stuff before. That tends to bring even more weird crap your way. Did you find anything else?”_

_Sent: 7:54 AM_  
_“Yeah. His academic record is spotless. He was a straight A student, who was hooked up with an athletic scholarship. Apparently he was an all around accomplished kid.”_

_“What’s your deal with him? Don’t you guard a shit ton of people?”_

Jessica’s texts stirred a mixed emotion inside him. Bucky had been a good student, and an accomplished athlete...he’d been a big brother, with parents who’d loved him... On one hand, Steve was glad that, at one point, he’d had that...but it hurt all the worse knowing what Hydra had taken, and what they’d turned him into.

And then there was her question. Steve shifted as he haltingly typed out his reply.

_Sent: 7:55 AM_

_"No, he's the only prisoner I take care of."_

_Sent: 7:57 AM_

_"That doesn't answer all of my question. What's your deal with him?"_

Steve's tongue slid out to wet his lips, his fingers hovering over the keypad. _Why?_ The big question, the one he wasn't safe to answer. _Why was he doing all this for one prisoner._ The factual reason was that Bucky had been unjustly sentenced. The emotional reason though...the emotional reason was that he'd fallen in love with him...

_Sent: 7:59 AM_

_"I've gotta punch in, let me know if you uncover anything else."_

Steve heard his phone buzz with Jessica's reply before he'd even gotten it back into his pocket, but he didn't even spare it a glance. He wasn't ready for anyone to know yet. _He wasn't ready to put his reputation in anyone's hands but his own._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bucky was ready when the lights in his cell turned up.

He'd become spoiled. Every day Steve worked, before he left, he’d turn down the lights in his cell. Upon returning every morning, he’d turn them back up, and Bucky was grateful for every second that they were low. He slept better. It was cooler, and the malicious whisper that had once been a roaring chatter in his mind grew quieter, and quieter. He seldom heard it at all anymore. He’d gotten soft, and trusting- at least of _Steve._ It was a state that would have had him punished before, but...he was still doing what he was supposed to. He was still obeying his handler, and submitting himself to him. He was still devoting himself completely to what Steve wanted...was it so out of line for him to be enjoying little things like dimmed lights? Should he really be punished for the tiny flutter in his chest when he heard footsteps coming towards his door?

His eyes dropped to the slot as it opened with a familiar, welcomed click, a breathe of fresh air, and the low, smooth sound of Steve’s voice.

“Bucky? I’m gonna come in, okay?”

The flutter in his chest grew more insistent, and Bucky wet his lips with a tiny dip of his tongue. “Should I get down?” He asked quietly. Steve hadn’t restrained him last time, but he knew he should be prepared anyways.

“No, that’s alright-” _God,_ Bucky could _hear_ his beautiful smile just in the tone of his voice. “Are you ready?” His mouth twitched faintly at the corners. A smile still felt foreign to him, but...it was getting easier. Steve was making it easier. Bucky eased himself back against the far wall, giving Steve comfortable space to enter.

“I’m ready.”

The door opened, slow, and soft, and quiet, and Bucky’s heart gave a little stutter as Steve slipped in. He looked like he’d been up for hours already. The skin under his eyes had been growing darker over the past few week. He didn’t look like he’d gotten around to showering this morning, and Bucky could smell the coffee on his breath from where he stood. Then again, everything felt, and looked, and smelled different to him. His senses were stronger, and it was a mixed blessing, because pain was so much worse...but Steve’s gentle touch was so much better.

Steve gently sealed the door behind him, and in an instant, had crossed the tiny room before pulling up short. Bucky blinked, his shoulder drawing back slightly, chin tipping up just a tiny bit. He’d expected Steve to touch him right away, but his guard had drawn to a stop, his eyes lingering softly on his figure. He couldn’t quite discern the look in his eyes, but the distance held between them- expectant- and just a little bit awkward. Steve dipped his chin slightly, wetting his lips with a tiny dart of his tongue.

“May I-” he started but Bucky’s head was already tipping in a shallow nod, those steel gray eyes fixed seriously on Steve’s face.

Steve’s mouth turned up into a tiny smile, and he let out a low breath, moving in to close the space between them. Usually, he let Bucky initiate everything- the hand holding, the hugs, the...the tentative, secret kisses they’d shared. But in a moment weakness, Steve let his relief, and affection guide his actions, and he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Bucky’s mouth. He could feel the intake of breath that his charge drew in- feel the tiny movement forward as he reciprocated the kiss. He could feel his hands moving cautiously, fingers just brushing the sides of his ribs, like he wanted to touch, but wasn’t certain he was allowed. Steve smiled faintly into the kiss, and let his left hand drift down, gently laying over Bucky’s right hand and guiding it a little more fully against his side.

Bucky blinked quickly, his chin tipping just enough to break the soft kiss as his eyes fell to Steve’s side- to where his guard’s hand held his own against his body. Carefully, Bucky matched the gesture, moving his metal left hand against Steve’s side as well, so that he framed his ribs with his palms, feeling the rise and fall of Steve’s breathing. His body was so warm...He felt firm, and solid, and real under his hands, and Bucky drank in the sensation, his eyes lingering on the contact.

Steve’s mouth turned up into a little smile, and he reached up his free hand, slowly taking Bucky’s chin, and raising his eyes back to him. It was moments like these when he could forget how fucked up this whole situation was. With their chests pressed together, and their breath mingling between them, it was easy to forget what was at stake, and what would happen to both of them if this was discovered. With Bucky’s eyes locked, soft, and trusting on his, it was easy to forget that he didn’t actually love him…

Steve closed the kiss again, and let himself forget.

Bucky kissed back, soft, and slow, feeling the beat of Steve’s heart- just slightly faster than normal; _enjoying it._..he thought. As he moved his mouth carefully against Steve’s, Bucky let his mind flurry with activity. He listened to every breath- every beat of his heart. He wanted to do what Steve liked. He wanted to make his heart beat just a little bit faster, and his cheeks turn warm with a rush of blood. He started softly rubbing his hands up and down Steve’s sides, feeling the muscular lines of his adonis belt through his scratchy, starched work shirt, and he let his tongue brush just a tiny bit along Steve’s lower tip.

_Tactic successful._

Steve shivered just slightly, a little sigh escaping him as his hands moved to take Bucky’s face; the gesture was still soft, and tame. He never pushed deeper than the soft kiss. He didn't touch anywhere but his face, and arms. But Bucky liked when he would cup his jaw none the less. It felt warm, and safe. He shifted his head to the side, his lashes kissing Steve’s cheeks and his fingers trailed to rest on Steve’s belt.

At the lower touch, his guard made a soft, stifled sound against his lips, and abruptly broke the kiss. He tipped his chin down, catching a short breath of air as his hands dropped to Bucky’s. He closed his strong grip over them, stilling them on his belt as his cheeks heated, and an awkward half-smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “Uh…” He managed articulately, dipping his chin against his collarbone. “Uhhm- Buck, I….uh…”

Bucky gauged his reaction with level, calculating eyes. His handler had responded to the physical stimulus. _He liked it._ Bucky filed the observation away, and let Steve gently guide his hands away from his hips, moving them to clasp softly in the space between them. Steve gave his hands a little squeeze.

“I don’t...I don’t think-” He bit his lip, the pressure making color rise to surface of the soft, damp flesh. His eyes flickered up to Bucky’s, his cheeks flushed from the touch. “Let’s go sit down, okay?” He prompted, a tiny smile touching his lips at the little pucker that appeared between Bucky’s brows. He gave his hands another reassuring squeeze, and offered him a half-smile. “I’ve gotta catch you up.”

“Right.” The single word slipped Bucky’s lips- touched with confusion. Steve had been _clearly_ affected by the touch. He’d clearly enjoyed it when Bucky had traced his tongue over his lower lip, and moved his hands lower along his body... _why didn’t Steve take what he wanted from him?_ Bucky was even willing. He wanted Steve to take- _to do_ whatever he wanted with him, because then maybe Bucky could feel certain that the touch wouldn’t be taken from him. If he could give his handler pleasure, he wouldn’t be left alone again... _he hoped._ Nothing was certain in Bucky’s world. The only thing he was certain of was that he couldn’t manage without Steve. He _needed_ him, and his gentleness. He needed to be good enough that Steve would never withhold that from him.

He followed Steve over to the narrow, hard bed, bolted to the wall, and sunk down beside him. A small part of him wanted to keep pushing. It had become a mission in his mind; _Pleasure Steve_. Be valuable to him so he wouldn’t be neglected or harmed. He imagined Steve’s reaction if he were to straddle his lap, his knees on the cot on either side of his hips and kiss him like that. He imagined his hands moving around to grope him- turning him over and pleasuring himself with the Asset’s body just like his previous handlers had done. _That was how it was supposed to be._

But doing that right now would go against one of those soft, gentle orders that Steve gave him. He wanted to debrief him; so Bucky would listen.

He folded his hands softly, in his lap, glancing over at Steve once or twice before dropping his eyes back down again, his mouth still warm from the kiss. He wet his lips with a touch of his tongue, and tasted Steve.

Steve’s eyes tracked the movement, and after a second, he reached over, brushing the side of Bucky’s leg with the back of his knuckle, drawing his attention with a tiny smile. “I found someone to take your case.” He said softly, his expression warm with hope. “They’re a young practice, but...I’ve only heard good things, and... _they believe me about you._ Before long, we’re gonna get you an appeal, then a trial, and then you’re _free,_ Buck.” He knew it was more complex than just that, but for right now, it was nice to imagine it so simple. As soon as Nelson and Murdock had finished reviewing, and digging up any other evidence they needed, the process would be able to start, and for once, Steve really felt they could win.

Bucky’s mouth twitched slightly. He, on the other hand, wasn’t certain how to react to the news. He _wanted_ to be free, but he had no concept of what freedom would be like. In his memory, he’d lived his entire life in captivity, and freedom was a daunting change. What if freedom meant no Steve? What if freedom meant he was _alone,_ even though he would be surrounded by other people, and able to freely move however he chose. Bucky didn’t know _how_ to be free. _And he wasn’t sure he wanted it if Steve were left behind here._

“If they... _we_...win,” Bucky started haltingly, his eyes turning to Steve. “I’ll still see you...won’t I?”

Steve’s smile faltered, and suddenly turned aching, and his hand moved to softly close over where Bucky’s were clasped in his lap. “Buck, when we win...if you want...you can stay with me until you’re back on your feet, or however long you want.” His mouth quirked into a smirk at one corner, his chin dropping slightly. “I wouldn’t get you out of here only to drop you out on the streets.”

Bucky smiled faintly, shifting his hand until he could squeeze Steve’s gently in return, and Steve ran his thumb over the backs of his knuckles. _“Or-”_ Steve started again, glancing uncertainly over at his charge. “If you _don’t_ want to stay with me...you have family that I could find.”

This shook Bucky.

The man looked up shortly, for the first time since Steve had kissed him, really, _truly_ paying attention to what was being said to him. His brows twisted into a knot of confusion. “I...have _family?”_ He asked, blinking in shock. He had a concept of how old he was, not down to an exact date, but...he _knew._ He knew he’d outlived most everyone from his time thanks to Hydra, so the concept that he had family left was baffling.

“Yeah,” Steve said with a gentle smile. “The investigator I hired turned up quite a bit about you before... _everything_. Turns out you’ve got a sister, and nieces and nephews. _Grandnieces_ _and nephews_ too.” Bucky was staring at him, almost blankly, had Steve not know just how quick, and clever the mind inside his head really was. But this kind of information was a lot to take in, and Steve just gave him a reassuring smile, before resting his back against the cell wall, the bed creaking beneath him. “Your sister Rebecca is ninety five now, but I’m sure she’ll remember you.” His eyes flickered over, meeting his charge’s drawn stare. “Do you remember _her?”_

Bucky blinked for the first time in several long minutes, and then again, his eyes dry, and itchy. His tongue slid out, slowly wetting his chapped lips. He tried to focus, tried to remember his family amidst the tangled knot of horrors that Hydra had made of his memories. There was very little... _so very little_...but not nothing.

“She used to wear braids in her hair…” Bucky’s voice was low, and soft. “She had mud between her fingers…”

Bucky could feel the warmth in Steve’s eyes as he watched him. “Do you remember how old she was?” He asked softly, gently massaging Bucky’s hands as the other man sorted carefully through his damaged psyche. He greeted the question with a tiny shake of his head.

“Just a kid…” He murmured vaguely, the sweet, dark chocolate brown of his baby sister’s eyes coming back to him. “She had brown eyes...and...mom yelled when she came inside without washing.”

It was the first Bucky had mentioned his mother, and Steve felt a tiny tug of pride deep in his chest. _This_ was what he liked to see. Bucky remembering without pain, or discomfort. Without panic. His expression was distant, yet calm, even though he didn’t show any traces of happiness at the memories. That would come in time. Right now, _calm_ was the most Steve could ask for.

 _“That’s good, Buck._ ” He praised softly, but Bucky’s eyes were still fixed somewhere far away, and he didn’t react to the gentle praise like he usually did. He barely seemed to have heard it at all, and Steve felt a niggle of worry stirring deep in his chest. “Buck?” He pressed softly, easing close, one hand moving to tenderly stroke the front of his hair back away from his eyes. It was coarse, and slightly oily to the touch...The man needed a real shower beyond scrubbing his head in a sink. Steve made a mental note that that was next thing he needed to fix in the _endless_ list of things that needed to be changed in Bucky’s deplorable conditions. Still, he continued to run his fingers softly through his dirty hair, and Bucky inclined his head into the touch.

Finally, Bucky managed to verbalize, even though his voice was low, and husky, and his eyes distant. “ _My family won’t want me_.” He murmured in a soft voice. “It won’t matter that I used to be her brother...Rebecca won’t want a killer near her children, and grandchildren…”

Steve’s mouth opened to respond immediately, but he bit back the hasty words. Emotional reactions were foreign to Bucky. He was used to procedure, and logic, and order; logic would be the best comfort Steve could offer him. He pinched his lips together tightly, laying out his argument in his mind, before his hand gently came to rest on Bucky’s jaw. “Look at me...” He murmured softly, and after a halting second, Bucky turned his eyes to his guard, his expression tight, yet unreadable. Steve tipped his head slightly, still looking him in the eyes. “Buck...I never knew you before.” He started softly. “When I met you, the only thing I knew was what you’re records said, and I _still_ realized how wrong it was. I still lo- I...still realized what kind of man you actually are. Even never having known you before, I _understand_ that you’re innocent, and Rebecca... _She grew up with you._ She _knew_ you before the war, and Hydra, and everything.. _.and you think she won’t understand?”_ His hand cradled Bucky’s face a little closer, drawing him in so their foreheads almost touched. “ _You think she won’t love you?”_

The word _too_ almost slipped his lips. _You think she won’t love you too? Love you like I do?_ But whether he was indulging in kissing Bucky or not, he had to remind himself that it was purely a _physical_ act. It meant nothing more than holding Bucky’s hand did, or hugging him when he was upset. It was a tactile comfort, with little mutual emotion involved. Bucky liked to touched, and touch calmed him; Steve could never make the mistake of assuming that meant he was in love. But when Bucky blinked up at him with those impossibly deep, storm blue eyes- _god he wished he could forget…_

Bucky's eyes found his, staring back at him for a long, pained moment. It made sense but...he had a hard time accepting it. He barely remembered his sister. How could he expect her to accept him? How could he expect her to trust him when she’d probably heard of the things he’d done just the same as everybody else. But Steve’s hand was soft, and reassuring on his cheek, and Bucky closed his eyes, slowly sinking into the touch, and his scarred soul stirred as Steve’s lips gently pressed to his forehead.

 _“It’s okay_ …” He murmured softly, barely reacting as Bucky’s hand eased up to hold Steve’s closer against his cheek. “It’s okay...We’ll figure everything out soon...We’re almost there Buck...We’ve almost made it. It’s gonna be okay…”

 _Steve knew he should leave._ He shouldn’t linger in Bucky’s cell any longer, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Bucky had gone soft against him, leaning into the touch and slowly turning his face into the side of Steve’s neck. Steve gently eased his opposite arm around Bucky’s waist, tugging him close, and letting them sit- hip to hip, in the tiny cell. Bucky nuzzled into Steve’s neck, breathing a little sigh as his guard scratched through the hair at the nape of his neck, his other arm wrapped loosely around his waist. He rested a metal hand against Steve’s thigh, and listened to the irregularity in his heartbeat when he softly kissed his throat.

His guard like that...He liked the touch of his chapped lips against his own mouth, or against his throat, so Bucky turned his head, and sealed his lips softly over the vulnerable flesh. He let his metal hand stroke Steve's thigh, he tasted his pulse on his tongue. Steve's fingers curled softly through the hair at the base of his neck, and Bucky leaned closer, kissing under his jaw, and Steve gave a helpless little sigh. He went weak, closing his eyes against the harsh, white light.

 _He could do this._ Just for a little while, he could risk sitting right here, with his arms around the man he loved. He could stroke his fingers through his hair, and feel the warmth of his lips against his throat. He could have this...just for the two of them. Maybe not forever, _but just right now...just for this moment._

_Just for a few moments longer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys! Another one down! And I just want to thank you all so much for all your comments, they are such a huge source of motivation, and inspiration to me, and it helps me keep track of what questions you want answers to, and what things you may want to see in the future (And trust me, a lot of your suggestions DO get worked in to future chapters. ;) )
> 
> That being said, here's an open suggestion box: I've gotten a few chapters written in advance on this story. Would anyone be interested in TI being updated every five days instead of every seven? It'd be faster, but it wouldn't be on a predictable wednesday like normal. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts on the release schedule, and I would love to hear your comments on the chapter as well. Have a great day guys!


	11. Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Please head the warnings in the tags for mild dub con, and non explicit reference to past sexual abuse. (There's nothing detailed, or extreme, but I always want my readers to be aware.)

Steve Rogers liked his mouth; by now he was certain of it.

Bucky had heard every hitch in his guard’s breath when they'd held hands through the slot, and he'd pressed his mouth to his knuckles, or wrist. He'd attended to every escalation in heartbeat when they'd kissed, and every breathless sigh when his lips has dragged over his pulse point. Bucky had observed him staring for the better part of forty-five minutes in the yard today, his eyes lingering on his mouth before dropping away again, only to lift back -staring wantingly- minutes later. Bucky had carefully tested the theory, running his tongue over his lips to wet them, and listening to the slight change in Steve’s breathing.

He liked his mouth. And it was time Bucky used that information, because thing were changing rapidly, and it was making Bucky nervous.

Steve had told him in detail about his first meeting with the men who would represent him, and every meeting, or phone call since then. He kept Bucky updated on every detail as it came into place, and the closer they got to actual action, the more uncertain Bucky became. The concept of freedom was an appealing one, but it also made his scarred, mangled heart flinch with fear. He was facing something entirely unknown- entirely unfamiliar and, as his paranoia increased, he became less certain that he wouldn’t be left to face it alone.

Steve had assured him that he wouldn’t be disappearing once he was free. He’d said he would stay by his side...that Bucky could even _live_ with him until he recovered what was left of his life, but...it wasn’t that Bucky didn’t _trust_ him...he just felt the need for a little security, because right now, _he wasn’t useful to Steve_. He had to be useful, to make certain he knew he would be a good tool for his use, or pleasure. That why he’d been kept  alive before wasn’t it? By rights, he should be long dead. But he hadn’t outlived his usefulness yet, so Hydra had kept him. Now, he needed to make sure Steve saw the same thing.

He was still useful. He was still worth keeping.

_He...he just didn’t want to be left alone…_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Steve was... _preoccupied_.

For one thing, the more Steve allowed himself to share with Bucky, the _further_ he fell, and the _more_ he wanted. It killed him to sit outside his door for most of the day, only to slip in _maybe_ once to see him...to cradle his beautiful face in his hands...to kiss those soft, trusting lips… He wanted to be able to have that more often, he’d...he’d started wanting _more,_ and it was beginning to scare him. Just the day before, he’d caught himself imagining kissing the beautiful, pale expanse of Bucky’s throat. He’d caught himself lingering over thoughts of running his hands over his body... _of undressing him._

He’d snapped out of the thoughts, his skin crawling, stomach twisting into a cold, guilty knot, because kissing was one thing, but _sex?_ That was too much. It would be pushing this _way_ too far, and it _would_ be a violation of consent. It made Steve feel sick to even think of going too far with anyone...much less _Bucky_... _much less the man he loved…_ He’d compromised on the hand holding- on kissing him too, but Steve _couldn’t_ compromise on this. Bucky’s consent was more important than any of that. _It was more important than anything._

But there were other things occupying Steve’s mind as well.

He’d been in correspondence with Nelson and Murdock, and things were... _complicated_. Well... _evidence_ was complicated. At the time of recovering the evidence, Steve’s head had been spinning, his heart wrenched into knots of horror at seeing what had been done to the man he loved. He hadn’t been thinking, only knowing that he needed _someone_ to know what _he_ knew so that he could free Bucky from the hell he’d been sentenced to. But his evidence had been obtained illegally. He’d broken into a factory to recover it, that made it’s source illegal, and unreliable. Hence, it would be inadmissible in court.

He’d spoken on the phone with Foggy Nelson earlier in the day, and they were counting the physical files as a loss. Unless they were to be sneaked back into the Hydra base, and returned, they couldn’t be used, but the video files were not a lost cause. Steve had copied the files in his haste, _not_ transferred them, which mean the originals of all the video files still remained on the Hydra computers. Foggy had assured him that if these files could be reacquired by a reliable, and legal source, they would be admissible. Steve wasn’t sure what he thought of the tone of Foggy’s voice when he’d told him he knew the man for the job.

Foggy called him a 'friend on the force;' a police officer, Sergeant Mahoney, whose elderly mother had a weakness for cigars that Foggy happened to be _very good_ at procuring. He assured Steve that they were _actually_ friends, and if he called in an tip about having seen someone lingering around the deserted auto parts factory, that Sergeant Mahoney would be happy to take a look around.

 _‘Well- Not happy,’_ Foggy had quoted, _‘But his mom will be happy with the cigars, and any evidence will be safe with him.’_ Steve had haltingly taken him at his word. If an officer, on a trespassing check, happened to stumble across the evidence, it would be legal, and admissible. They would be in the clear. Foggy had told him that he and Matt would be coming by to talk to Bucky the next day, and after that, the ball would be well and truly rolling. Steve was nervous, but they were getting closer, and every day brought them nearer to the day that Bucky would be free.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bucky still hated leaving the yard, but he’d come to trust that Steve would always bring him back. His guard had decided not to fight his superior officer on Bucky only having forty-five minutes of yard time a week; fighting him now wasn’t worth the risk, so Bucky became accustomed to his few minutes of fresh air a week. He could enjoy it better knowing that it wouldn’t be the last time- that Steve was good on his word to bring him back.

He’d also stopped unconsciously resisting when Steve went to place him back in his cell...mostly because Steve would join him inside for just a few minutes. He’d undo his bonds, and then exchange tender affections with him. He’d drink in the angles of his face with gentle blue eyes as he stroked his hair, and murmured absently about a haircut. He would let Bucky lean in, and he’d fold him into a soft embrace... _he’d kiss him._

Bucky _lived_ for the moments of soft affection he got from Steve, and he complied willingly as he felt Steve’s solid hands guiding him into his cell- lifting for a moment to seal the door, before he set to undoing his bonds. Steve always worked his bonds off in the same order- first the spit guard, then both tethers, and finally the cuffs. He felt him freeing up his range of motion little by little, and Bucky waited, heart rate elevating as the cuffs clicked, and his wrists slid out from the rings of harsh metal.

Bucky flex his hands by his sides as he turned, and as he did, Steve’s hand slid up to card gently through his hair. The prisoner felt a little smile turning up the corners on his mouth, and he reached up, his hand folding over Steve’s as he nuzzled into the touch. His guard’s warm, solid hand moved gently to his jaw, and Steve eased in a little closer, his expression soft, and affectionate.

“You did _really well_ today…” He praised softly, his opposite hand coming up to caress the rough skin of his cheek, brushing over his wiry stubble, and Steve smiled warmly. “I don’t think you flinched at all at the spit guard... _That’s really good, Buck…”_

Bucky tipped his chin down, his heart warming at the praise. Praise wasn’t a thing of his past life. He had never been praised before Steve, only ignored if he did well, and punished if he did poorly. Praise was still new, and it still made his abused heart sigh with relief. Slowly, he eased forward, letting his hand slide from Steve’s and moving them to rest right over where Steve had placed them the last time they’d kissed- resting on his sides, framing his ribs. The movement was cautious, and tentative, but Steve reacted only with a smile. He let him move in closer, his hand brushing through his overlong hair once more.

_God he loved seeing Bucky seek out his touch._

His heart felt warm, and tight as Bucky leaned in, and Steve made a soft, soothing sound in the back of his throat as their chests pressed together. Bucky was heavy, and solid against him, and Steve eased back, resting his back against the steel door as he stroked through his hair. Bucky was so beautiful... _so beautiful,_ even in the harsh light, with his shoulder-length hair unkempt, and his prison uniform rumpled. _He was beautiful._..Steve could never get over how beautiful he was...he could never get used to feeling his breath on his neck, or his hands resting tentatively on his waist. Even after the few months they’d spent cautiously exchanging touch, Bucky was still so hungry for it. There was a seventy year old pit inside him that would take more than a month or two to fill. Bucky needed to make up for a lifetime of sensual deprivation. He needed to recover from seventy years without kind touch, and Steve...all Steve wanted was to help him do that...all he wanted was for Bucky to be happy…

“Hey…” He murmured gently, tipping Bucky’s face up and stroking his hair out of his eyes. His charge’s eyes lifted to his, staring at him hungrily, his gaze laced with that constant need for kindness, and affection. _He just wanted to be treated with care…_ Steve tipped his chin slightly, his eyes level with Bucky’s. “You alright?” He asked softly, caressing his cheek with the back of one knuckle. “You've been quiet...are you okay?”

After a second, Bucky let his expression ease, softening into a smile. Steve liked it when he smiled. “Fine.” He breathed in an undertone, slowly pulling Steve a little closer by his hips. He noted in his mental log of the mission that Steve’s breath hitched in his chest when he’d taken him by the hips. “It’s just...yesterday was your day off, and I missed this.”

Steve tipped his chin down a little further, his face flushing just a little bit, and Bucky’s enhanced hearing picked up on the slight elevation in his heart rate. He...He hadn’t stimulated him at all. The reaction must have come from the words, and Bucky felt a little tug of confusion in his gut. He understood, and accepted that his handler was physically, and sexually attracted to him, which was why proving himself to be useful for his pleasure would be most effective but….that didn’t explain his reaction to the statement, he seemed to respond positively, even though the phrase had been non-sexual. He didn’t understand. But that didn’t matter. As long as he could make Steve understand that he was worth keeping, nothing else mattered.

Steve let out a soft laugh, but something in it sounded pained- something deep inside the core of Steve's heart. But as he lifted his head, his mouth turned up in a little smile, and his eyes were kind despite the hurt lingering there. "Yeah..." He said softly, stroking Bucky's cheeks as he leaned in, his forehead lightly touching his. "Yeah, me too."

At the affectionate confirmation, Bucky felt his core tighten with purpose and he initiated his mission. He leaned forward, closing the distance between their lips and kissing Steve against the cell door.

Steve felt his stomach swoop, his head suddenly dizzy with a rush of endorphins as Bucky's solid weight held him against the door, his mouth warm, and wet against his. His hands held his hips in place, his long lashes kisses his cheeks, and Steve let out a low sound of pleasure as his fingers twined through the strands of his hair. He pulled Bucky closer with a muffled hum, the feeling of their chests, flush together, turning his stomach hot with delight. _He loved this_ \- loved being so close to him- kissing him. He loved the warm, solid grip of his hands on his hips, and the hungry desperation that laced the kiss. It was deeper than before- than _any_ kiss they’d ever shared. It was more desperate, more passionate, and Steve stifled a noise as the top of Bucky’s thigh pressed against the front of his slacks. He didn’t know it the movement had been intentional or not, but he tried to keep himself grounded. _It was just a kiss. It wasn’t allowed to be anything more than a kiss._

But God could he enjoy it for what it was.

Steve closed his eyes, sinking into the kiss, until his knees felt rubbery, and his stomach and chest were hot with hunger. Bucky’s hands felt so good- his mouth so soft, and warm, and hungry against his own. Steve kissed him with every ounce of burning, aching love in his chest, and knew that to Bucky it was merely physical comfort. But that was alright...that was alright because there was a chance he may love him later. There was a chance that when Bucky was free, he could understand how much this _really_ meant.

Bucky broke the kiss with a heady gasp, instantly dipping his head and dragged his wet mouth along the front of Steve's throat, and his guard dropped his head back with a low sigh, his fingers tightening through his hair just hard enough to make his scalp prickle; just hard enough the make his heart race. His blood coursed, hot, through his veins, his breath coming slightly labored against Steve's neck as he sucked at his pulse point. The mission was going smoothly. Steve's chest was flushed with heat, and his hands dragged through his hair as he let out breathless, rough sounds as Bucky kissed under his jaw. He let his teeth scrape lightly over his skin- let his breath ghost over his throat as he worked lower and lower, sucking at the base of his throat right beside his collar. One hand slid along the side of Steve’s neck, his smallest finger dipping just under his collar, sliding across unexplored territory.

Steve was weak. He was so- _so_ weak when it came to Bucky. He’d been through a lot in his life, and nothing had taken him apart quite like this. He was crumbling, and Bucky was simultaneously the perpetrator, and the only thing holding him together. He wanted to sink into him, and stay there, clinging to his form and never letting go. Because Steve loved Bucky so more than he’d ever loved anyone in his entire life. He wasn’t sure how it happened, but it was the truest, more brutally _real_ thing he’d ever experienced, and it shook him to his core. It turned him numb, and stupid, and weak. It quietly disengaged the corner of his brain that was clanging warning bells, filling his head with an intoxicated fog.

Bucky let his tongue press to Steve’s pulse point, his lashes lifting slowly as he drank in his expression. Steve’s face was slack. His eyes were closed, brows lifted, and his mouth was dropped open in a frozen, breathless sigh.

_Engage Target._

Bucky slid to his knees in one smooth motion, his hands dragging down Steve’s front as he did so; dragging over the swell of his pecs, and over his abs. Sliding down his hips and over the bulge in the front of his slacks. Speed, and accuracy were the tactics he needed now. Prove he was worth Steve’s time, and affection before he came back to himself. Show him he was worth keeping. His hands moved with practiced precision, undoing the front of Steve’s slacks, ignoring the signs of response as Steve blinked rapidly, taking in a breath. He was losing time, _fast._ Steve was reacting. He wasn’t going to have enough time.

Bucky pressed forward abruptly, forgetting about the rest of his clothing completely and pressing his mouth against his lap. He parted his lips, hungrily mouthing at Steve’s half hard cock through his boxers, his lips and tongue warm, and wet. He dragged in a deep breath through his nose, Steve’s musky scent filling his senses, and he pressed deeper, letting out a low sound as he clung to his hips, the thin fabric dampening under his mouth. He could feel the outline of his hardening erection under his lips- feel his mouth around the thickness of it, and he let out a purposeful moan, pressing the flat of his tongue to it as it twitched under the stimulation.

Steve blinked, once- twice- coming out of his haze when suddenly, realization cracked through his like a whip. Pleasure was chased out by raw, sick guilt and fear, and alarm slashed through his body like a knife.

He jerked against the heavy steel door, his lungs filling with sticky, stale air. His gaze wrenched down, his stomach plunging. _“Bucky-”_

His knee-jerk reaction to yank him back in a panic, before the clear part of his frantic mind remembered his grip through Bucky’s over long hair. His hand flashed open grabbing his shoulders instead and shoving back.

Bucky lurched with the moment. He caught himself on his haunches, eyes widening as Steve drew up to his full height, and his lungs suddenly filled with panic. _He’d been pushed away. He’d failed his mission._

“Bucky, _NO_.”

It was as firm a tone as Steve had ever taken with him, and Bucky felt his stomach turn sick with horror. His mouth went slack with fear, staring up at his guard from his knees. A sudden shudder wracked his frame and Bucky sunk forward in blind, submissive fear. He doubled forward, lacing his hands over the back of his neck, and waiting- bracing himself, because Steve had reprimanded him, and that meant he deserved to be punished. Steve deserved the justice of hurting him.

Steve drew in a sharp breath, blinking rapidly as Bucky hunched his body submissively. And sudden, his breath left him in a heavy, ragged gasp, and he dropped to his knees. _God-_ what had he stumbled into here? Could this awful, toxic world give this abused man a moment to breathe? Had he had _anything_ left to him purely for enjoyment? Steve wet his lips, suddenly feeling shaky, and unbalanced as he reached forward, his hand hovering just over Bucky’s shaking shoulder.

“Bucky…” He murmured softly, waiting out the initial flinch before resting his hand more fully on his shoulder. He shifted his grip, gently rubbing a comforting circle on the back of his neck with his thumb. He pressed it into the tense muscles, soothing, and massaging them tenderly as Bucky continued to tremble under his hands. “Bucky, it’s okay…” He murmured, “It’s okay, look at me, look at me, alright?”

At the request that Bucky interpreted as an order, the prisoner lifted his gaunt, ashen face. His eyes lifting helplessly to Steve- shattered, and desperate. His dry, cracked lips parted, and suddenly, something in him drove him to beg- to beg for atonement, because the look on Steve’s face already told him he wouldn’t be punished. And he _deserved_ it...Steve should have punished him _so many times_ by now and he _never_ had. He needed to atone for what he’d done. He needed to beg that of Steve.

 _“Please-”_ Bucky managed in a soft, raw tone, a shiver running through his body as Steve moved to take his face. “Please...Steve- I’m so sorry- Let me make up for it, please- You can do whatever you want to me- I’ll be good- Steve, _I promise_ \- I’ll be _so_ good, just-”

Steve recoiled, the panic washing out of his system to be replaced with nothing other than unadulterated _horror._ He could feel the blood draining from his face- feel his expression twisting with shock, and pain, and disgust towards the monsters that made him this way. _“God-”_ He whispered sickly, staring at the desperate man on his knees. He pulled his hand back from him, his palm burning from where he’d touched him, his body replaying every sensation it had felt minutes ago. Bucky’s hands on his hips. The kissing. The necking. His mouth working wetly on his cock through his boxers. And suddenly, Steve felt nausea rise so violently in his throat he thought he might hurl.

“ _Oh my god…”_ He whispered sickly. “Bucky, do you...Do you have _any idea_ how consent works?” His words came out as a raw croak, his throat suddenly tight, eyes stinging despite himself. _God-_ he felt ill all over again. He felt exactly like he had coming out of that awful research lab- _gutted._ Like everything in him had been ripped out and left to putrefy, only to be sewn back up inside him weeks later. The images Bucky’s desperate plea for atonement evoked made Steve feel wrong all over. He felt sick, and rotten on the inside, like nothing would ever be right again. Because Bucky was _conditioned_ to behave like this. Because this had happened to him before, with someone far more malicious than Steve.

Slowly, Bucky unlaced his clenched fingers from behind his head, placing them on the ground in an act of submission. His face was still white, his lips dry, and cracked, and his gaze was focused somewhere far away, staring straight through the concrete floor to keep his eyes from Steve. “‘Course I do…” He managed thickly, a shudder running up his spine. “It’s...you wanting something...sexually.”

At first, the answer _almost_ relieved Steve, until all the sudden, Bucky’s meaning settled over him like a wet fog. When he’d said _you,_ he hadn’t been referring to people in general. He’d meant _Steve._ He’d meant his _handler._ To Bucky, consent was his handlers wanting something of him. That was the bottom line. If they wanted to take, Bucky was obligated, and _expected_ to give. It didn’t matter what, or how much. If a handler demanded it of him, it was Bucky’s conditioning to comply. He had no say. He was a toy to be used. To Bucky, _that_ was consent.

Steve stared- _mortified._

This was so wrong. This was so sick, and fucked up, and... _was that what today had been all about?_

 _“Bucky…”_ He whispered, his tone raw, and shaky, something in him having snapped at the realization of Bucky’s warped definition of consent. He wanted to correct him right away, but suddenly, something slipped through the sick, dazed fog. Bucky was still doubled over on the concrete floor, and Steve was kneeling over him. Maybe it would do nothing for the power imbalance that had been forced on them, but at least _physically,_ Steve needed to level the playing field. In some way, if only in a _tiny_ way, Steve wanted to help Bucky understand that they were equals, or...they were _supposed_ to be. “Comm’ere…” He murmured thickly, the words muddling together in a breathless whisper as he softly took Bucky’s shoulders again, trying to ease him up despite Bucky’s reluctance.

His prisoner’s eyes widened with uncertainty, and Steve caught his gaze. “Bucky.” He pressed, his expression softened pleadingly. “Please... _please_ come here…”

This time, Bucky complied, rising haltingly to his knees, and then his feet. His eyes were huge with fear, and desperation- haunted by the horrors of his history. He looked lost, and directionless, like Steve not punishing him had thrown him into a tailspin. But he followed him numbly, still awaiting the brutality he thought he deserved. Even from Steve. He followed, as his guard moved over to the edge of the bed, and sat down on the stiff, creaking canvas.

_Oh._

_That’s_ how he would punish him. At least it was a punishment Bucky understood.

Bucky took his place on the bed and instantly eased back on his elbows, spreading his legs for Steve to do whatever he wanted with his body. Clearly _initiating_ sexual contact with him was why he needed to be punished, but Steve was obviously entitled to _take_ from him. Handlers frequently used sex as a form of punishment, and Bucky was well familiar with all the ways it could hurt. But a part of him still trusted Steve not to cross the line that separated _punishment_ from _torture._

If Steve thought he could never feel more horrified, he was wrong.

Bucky lay back, legs parted and bent loosely at the knees, his head tipped back to submissively bare his throat, and Steve felt his mouth go slack, his eyes burning. _God- what had they done to him?_

Instantly, Steve moved forward, taking Bucky’s left knee and pushing it in against his right to close to expectant, submissive spread of his legs. He bent forward, shakily taking Bucky’s face in trembling hands, his lips twitching in a low, mortified murmur. “ _No...no no no,_ Buck-” He whispered brokenly, blinking one too many times, a single drop of moisture escaping down his left cheek as he leaned close. “Bucky… _God-stop_ \- stop this, _please-_ I’m not gonna...I…” He choked back a hard swallow, finding himself unconsciously laying beside, and half over Bucky on the hard bunk, his weight braced on his elbows, his forehead almost touching Bucky’s. His prisoner lay on his back, eyes wide and staring at him in confused, conflicted pain, his lips parted slightly as he waited for the punishment he believed should be forthcoming. Steve swallowed again, a shudder running up his spine as he stared into those shattered eyes, and he let out a raw, agonized breath.

“Bucky…” He tried again, managing to collect his wits enough not to just babble broken, pained fragments of thought. “ _I’m not gonna do that_. I’m not gonna have sex with you, and certainly not to _punish you-_ that should _never_ be used as a punishment, got that?” He pressed desperately. “The people that punished you like that were _sick,_ and _wrong-_ a- and I’m _never_ going to do that to you.” His hold on his face unconsciously tightened, his forehead pressing desperately to Bucky’s as another soft, agonized tear slipped over the rim of his eyelid, dropping with a wet _tap_ against Bucky’s sunken cheek.

“Never... _okay?”_ He managed in a cracked whisper. “I’m not gonna rape you as punishment- I- I don’t even want to go any further than _kissing_ you because I don’t think you believe your consent means anything-” Steve let out a raw breath, closing his eyes as a pained sounds started low in his throat. He’d never tried to make Bucky understand this before. He’d never thought he’d need to. He’d always assumed that Bucky would be free, and recovering before _anything_ like this happened between them, and that they could work up to it- _slowly,_ and _healthily-_ until Steve was absolutely certain he had Bucky’s complete, informed consent. But then _this_ had happened...and Steve suddenly found himself cornered into trying to help Bucky understand something that, at the moment, he didn’t believe him _capable_ of understanding... _because why else would he have done this?_

“Buck…” He started again, drawing in a shaking breath. “Why did you try to initiate that?” Steve asked carefully, trying to choose words that Bucky was familiar with- programming words. Words with a mechanical connotation, because in Bucky’s memory, sex was not so much an emotional act as a procedural one.  

Bucky blinked sharply, breaking out of the haze of tension, fear, and shame. He’d been stock still until this moment, trying to process Steve’s words- trying to understand why he wasn’t being hurt. He blinked again, letting out a tight breath. “I…” He started haltingly, his voice small, face ashen with fear and confusion and hurt. “I...wanted to be useful to you...I wanted to be useful so that you would keep me...I- I don’t want to be alone...Please...you can use me however you want, just... _don’t leave me..._ please Steve- ... _I just don’t want to be alone…”_

Steve choked back a strangled sound that was something like a sob, suddenly bending forward and burying his face in the side of Bucky’s neck. His broad chest pressed down over his metal left shoulder, his hands still holding his jaw as he clung to him, and Bucky felt hot moisture slipping from under his lashes. Steve was _crying-_ holding him- and _crying..._ His hand slid shakily up dragging through Bucky’s hair as he caught a breath, letting it out again- raw, and tremulous.

_“I’m not gonna leave you…”_

The words were low, and choked, and Bucky felt something inside him crumble as Steve’s soft, wet lips pressed a soft kiss against his jaw. His breath was hot on his skin, his hands clinging to him like he’d never let go. “I’m not gonna leave you...I promise... _I promise I won’t leave you._..You don’t have to do this...you don’t have to prove you’re somehow _useful_ to deserve being taken care of…”

Steve swallowed hard, slowly lifting his head, not ever bothering to brush at the wetness across his cheeks. He leaned close, touching his forehead to Bucky’s as he caressed the other man’s cheek with a shaking hand. “Buck...I- I _care_ about you. I care about what happens to you, and whether or not you’re safe, and happy...You...you mean a lot to me, and I’m not going to leave you if you don’t feel like you’re useful to me-”

“But-” Bucky started desperately, and Steve’s shaking figure pressed closer, his hands taking his jaw a little more fully.

“Look at me-” Steve pleaded, cutting him off with a note of agony in his voice. “Bucky.. _.look at me…”_ He swallowed hard, his stomach in knots, and his chest constricted so tight he felt his rib cage would shatter. But he pressed on anyways. “Listen…” He breathed. “I don’t ever want you to do that again...I don’t _ever_ want you to feel like you have to do something to- to _pleasure_ me because you want to know I won’t leave you. _You know_ . Alright? I’m telling you right now so that _you know,_ and you don’t have to doubt it...I will never abandon you _...okay?”_  His hand brushed softly over his cheek, caressing him with all the tenderness in the world, his deep blue eyes holding a sea of love and hurt. “I don’t want you to be _useful,_ I want you to be _happy.._.I want you to get better, Buck...I want to see you free, and safe, and recovering from the things those people did to you. _..that’s all_ …” Steve breathed, nuzzling close, their breath mingling between them. “That’s _all_ I want...not favors, or pleasure, or sex...I just want you to be alright…”

Bucky blinked, staring up at him as his words seeped into the cracks of his shattered soul, pouring over all the raw hurt, and fear like ice water on a burn. And suddenly, in a moment of weakness, Bucky let the stinging in his eyes well, and hot tears slid down his sunken cheeks. He tipped his head forward, breaking out of his stillness as he leaned into Steve’s comforting touch, and something like a sob escaped his throat. His arms twitched at his sides, before his desperation for comfort overtook him and they came up, wrapping around the back of Steve’s neck.

He clung to him as Steve pressed in, burying his face back in the crook of Bucky’s neck, one arm sliding under him to return the desperate embrace. Bucky trembled in his arms, muffling quiet, hitching sobs into his shoulder as Steve lay, almost on top of him, on the hard prison bunk.

They lay there for a long time, Steve murmuring words of comfort into Bucky’s ear as he let himself cry. His fingers ran through his hair, his opposite hand massaging over the tension in his shoulders and back. It hurt to see Bucky break apart like this, but in a way, Steve was grateful. He wasn’t trying to convince Steve to take from him anymore- He wasn’t trying to make him believe that he deserved to be punished and that Steve had a right to do whatever he wanted to him. It didn’t mean Steve had entirely changed his mind, but it was progress. It was a first step in a very long process. It could take Bucky _years_ to finally grasp what Steve knew to be true: that Bucky had the final say in what happened with his body, not Steve, or anyone else. That his consent mattered...that he didn’t need to be _useful_ to deserve care and affection.

Steve knew all of that could take a very long time for Bucky to finally believed, but for now, Steve would be happy if Bucky could only believe that he wouldn’t abandon him.

Normally, Steve would take only a few minutes to to hug, and kiss, and stroke Bucky hair after returning him to his cell, but not today. Today too much had happened, and Bucky needed him more than ever. He needed comfort, and affection, or even just Steve’s presence in the room with him. So Steve lay on the hard bunk with Bucky- kissing his cheeks and stroking his hair until the sobs stopped wracking his body. He wiped his tears away with soft, tender hands, and breathed reassurance between their lips as he kissed him, slow, and tame, and purely for comfort. He stayed for hours, only to finally ease away when Bucky’s body had gone relaxed, and his eyes had grown heavy.

Steve kissed him once more, softly urging him to stay down as he stroked over his hair, and whispered that he’d dim the lights for him to sleep. Bucky had managed a tiny smile, catching Steve’s hand in his own and drawing it up to press his lips to the back of his knuckles, before letting him go. Steve slipped from his cell, and dimmed the lights, the knots inside his heart finally beginning to ease.

Bucky had calmed, and Steve prayed he’d taken some of what he’d said to heart. He prayed he believed him that he wouldn’t be left alone. He prayed Bucky believed that he didn’t need to pleasure Steve to be worth his time and affection… Matt and Foggy were coming the next afternoon to speak with him, and before long the process of proving his innocence would begin...His Bucky had been through hell...but Steve hoped with everything in him that this was the start of his way out...  

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The next morning as Steve stepped into the complex to punch his time card, a pink slip was thrust into his hands, and he was escorted from the prison grounds.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so we're set to go on the five day schedule, the next chapter will be up on saturday. Can't wait to hear all your thoughts and comments as usual! And feel free to come yell at me on my tumblr at thelittlestpurplecat.tumblr.com


	12. Dismissal

_“I get it-_ I’ve been fired, but I at least deserve to see the Warden!” Steve snapped, tugging his forearm out of the security guards hold, and whipping around to face him.

He’d gotten him as far as the front door before Steve’s shock had given way to anger, and acute clarity, and he’d yanked out of his ‘escort’s grip. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. He wasn’t just going to walk placidly away from the career he’d built, and the man he loved. And suddenly, Steve found himself facing one of the prison’s extra security staff -a man at least as tall and broad as himself- and feeling nothing but stubborn, righteous anger.

His face was flushed with rage, fists clenched at his sides, and Steve jerked his chin up at the man, his jaw twinging with tension. “Look-” He spat tightly, a stress tick having developed by the corner of his right eye. “My gun, taser, and everything is in my office. I’m not armed, I’m not going to kill anyone, but the Warden owes me an explanation- _Come on!”_ He said shortly, grabbing the man’s wrist. “We’ve worked in this complex together for six years! You _know_ my reputation! You know I’m good for my word, just-” Steve’s intensity broke off, and he swallowed hard, his eyes fixing on the guard. “ _Let me see the Warden._ Let me _talk_ to him... _please_.” Steve added softly, his voice dropping off, eyes desperate.

After a long second, the security guard’s expression twisted, and he grabbed Steve’s upper arm in a firm grip, yanking him close. “Fine-” He said tightly, a knot of indecision drawing at his brows. “Ten minutes _max,_ and then you beat it before I get canned for this too.”

Steve nodded a wordless thanks, letting the man take him firmly by the upper arm, and lead him to the Warden’s office.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Steve stepped to the door of the Warden's office, stifling the urge to bristle at the mere sight of him. The security guard lingered close at the doorway, watching his movements, and Steve knew deep in his gut that he would need to monitor his every motion and word. He could just as easily be tossed out, but he was determined not to go without answers. After all these years of consistent service it was the least they could do.

But regardless of how closely he needed to police his words, Steve also suddenly found himself in a position he'd never been in before; for the first time, he could say _exactly_ what he thought to this man without fear of losing his situation.

It was already gone. Steve had nothing more to lose, so his superior was going to hear _exactly_ what he’d had been wanting to tell him for the last five and a half months.

He strode into the Warden's office, his heart slamming in his ears as the man sat forward in his desk chair, his expression tightening with irritation. His solid fingers laced together in front of him, tense mouth resting against his knuckles as his eyes bored into his former employee. _"Rogers..."_ He greeted coldly; the tone rumbling from deep inside his stocky chest. "I thought you were being seen out."

"And I thought you were running a correctional facility. _Turns out we're both disappointed."_

The man's jaw flexed, his hands sliding down to rest, clenched, on the top of the desk. "Get to the point, Rogers. I'll give you a few minutes but then I want you off my compound." He snapped, and Steve closed the distance between himself and the desk, but he didn't take the seat across from him as normal. Instead, he braced the flat of his hands on the face of the desk, leaning forward with clenched teeth and eyes bright with anger.

"I deserve an explanation." He hissed coolly, refusing to take a position of subordinance. He wouldn't sit and place himself lower than the man who'd fired him- who'd decided Bucky's conditions should be as harsh as they were. Instead. He stood, rigid, and tense, making himself equal to Warden; a man who no longer deserved his subordination or respect. "I've worked here for over six years and I was fired with no notice, and no explanation, so that's the _least_ I deserve." He finished tightly, his grip curling slightly on the edge of the desk, and the Warden's eyes raised levelly to his.

"You need an _explanation?"_ He asked with a sharp, derisive bark. "You know, when most people have a guilty conscience, they usually don't have to ask, but let me walk you through it." His tone had turned nasty and pandering, and he rose to his feet to put himself level with Steve. "Two days ago we received a call from two men claiming to be your charge's attorneys, requesting to speak with him regarding his _appeal_ ." The words was emphasized thickly, his eyes boring into him as though the mere _concept_ of a prisoner requesting an appeal was repugnant to him. "Now, _legally_ we have no right to deny them an audience, but I don't know about you, but I don't believe your charge's cell is equipped with a phone. He must have had outside help, and by your request record over the past few months, I've got not choice but to assume that was you."

"He's been unfairly sentenced! There's no crime in attempting to _legally_ free an innocent man-" Steve snapped, straightening his shoulders as his jaw clenched tightly. "Contacting an attorney on his behalf is _not_ illegal, and it's _not_ grounds for terminating my employment."

"Not that-" He conceded coldly, "but prison staff have been noticing certain... _oddities_ in how you handle your official duties. For one thing, you were obnoxiously insistent on altering your prisoner's conditions, and when request weren't granted, you acted without orders. 088074's relief guard had reported finding the temperature and lighting conditions altered when he arrives to relieve you in the evenings. He also reported you coming in at unusual times, and attempting to convince him to let you assume portions of his shift."

Steve felt his stomach sinking. The things his former superior was recounting were _details_...minuscule things that, when strung together, turned into a much more intimidating chunk of malicious evidence. It was just a light....just a couple degrees on a thermostat...but in such a rigid system, it hadn't slipped by unnoticed, and now, everyone involved was going to pay for it.

"All of this. _..suspicious activity_ lead to a decision to place a micro camera in the upper west corner of your prisoners cell. It was installed as your charge was taken to the yard." The man sank back down into his chair. Steve felt the weight on his words sinking in, and a sick horror began to rise inside him; tightening his throat, and turning his stomach into a knot. A cold, nauseous sweat broke out across his forehead and Steve suddenly felt everything in him go weak with sick disbelief. _God no...please tell him that wasn’t true…_ The Warden slid out his tongue, wetting his lips slowly as he gave a mocking flick of his thick eyebrows. "Would you care to see what the camera captured an astonishing _thirty minutes_ after it was installed?" He asked coolly, as Steve's mouth went slack, his face suddenly ashen.  
The Warden turned the screen of his computer to the side so that Steve's horrified eyes fell to the display. It was a grainy image of Bucky's tiny, empty cell. For a camera too small to be noticed, there must have been some compromise on the quality, but Steve could still see all too clearly as he lead Bucky back into the cell at the thirty minute mark on the video. His heart fell, his body frozen as he watched in sick realization as he undid Bucky's bonds, and the man turned around to face him. _God- how had this happened_ \- Bucky's hands fell to his waist, and moments later, Steve watched as the image of himself was pressed back against the wall and kissed- deep- and hungry on the mouth.

He could almost feel the sensations all over again- the warmth of Bucky’s lips, the solid reality of his hands framing his ribs. It had all felt so good...so right...it had been such a blessing to be able to kiss the man he was so in love with he’d do anything for, and forget how the odds were stacked against their chances for happiness. It had been so good...but played back on the screen in grainy, security footage, it looked perverse, and careless, and wrong. It looked nothing like the gentle miracle it had been.

"Is it _not_ what it looks like?"

The prompt was cold and mocking as Steve watched Bucky's hands move from his ribs to his hips- as Steve's head tipped back in a helpless sigh of pleasure and Bucky dropped smoothly to his knees. Steve's eyes turned bleakly away from the footage.

"So that's it..." He said softly, taking a shallow step back and a shallower breath in. The Warden lifted his brows. The anger had momentarily bled the from air, but none of the tension, nor the derisive smugness in his superiors stare.

"It's not nothing." He returned coolly. "You disobeyed orders from superiors, worked directly in insubordination to this establishment and engaged a prisoner sexually. That's not only breaking the rules of your contract, but endangering every officer and prisoner in the complex, and that's not even _mentioning_ the breech in morality-"

Abruptly Steve’s gutted, dead resignation shattered. His head snapped up, staring sharply, something burning deep in those clear blue eyes that caused the Warden to falter. _"Breech_ in _morality?"_ Steve breathed, his tone suddenly low, and dangerous and he stepped back in against the desk, his palms coming back to rest on the smooth wood top. He leaned forward, the clarity sparking into disgust, and then rage. His teeth clenched, jaw spasming as he leaned in towards his former superior. "I understand that I have to be let go for this, but don’t you _dare_ call it a breech in morality.” He spat, his eyes livid, face flushed with rage. “In all the time I've worked in this facility I've heard of, and attempted to address, no less than a _dozen_ accounts of guards sexually assaulting prisoners, and _nothing_ has been done about any of them. It gets brushed under the rug-" He snapped his tone raising in vicious intensity, his lips curling in unbridled disgust. "You pass it off as nothing while you have god knows how many rapists in your employment, and god knows how many prisoners who had seen no closure or justice for what was done to them and I-"

Steve cut off sharply, letting out a ragged breath through his teeth, his eyes closing for a brief moment as a shiver ran up his shoulders. He felt sick. The rage left him feeling gutted, and the accusation against him made him nauseous. _It was so fucking unfair_ … After everything he’d done to try and guide this twisted relationship towards as healthy a grounds as it could possibly stand on...it made him sick to hear it referred to as a breach in morality. And even if his superior refused to acknowledge that...he had nothing left to lose.

"...I... _care_ about James,” He started again, speaking through clenched teeth, his words dripping with careful restraint. ”And if you'd look past your own prejudice you'd see that I never engaged him. I _refused_ to engage him sexually because I knew what he'd been through and I _knew_ he couldn't properly consent...fire me for endangering others through a relationship with a prisoner, but don’t you _dare_ say I was morally corrupt in my conduct."

Slowly the Warden sat forward, his heavy jaw clenched, his eye dark, and cold at having been spoken to in such a forward manner. Without the threat of unemployment hanging over his head, the Warden had suddenly exposed himself to every bitting, snap of truth that Steve had swallowed back, and it wasn’t a side of him the Warden liked. But he didn’t have to like it. And he didn’t have to deal with it.

“You can say what you want.” His former superior snarled. “But the fact is I have evidence to support a corruption claim, and you can count yourself lucky that you’re _only_ being fired. I could just as easily bring up charges against you, and have you locked away. Now-” He spat, slowly rising to his feet, and leaning across the desk until there was only a breath of tense space between them. “I suggest you leave before I lose my patience with you. A wrong word or two could sway me to change my mind.”

Steve bit back a retort. _God_ he wished this cold, vicious troll didn’t hold that last thread of control over him...but prison wasn’t a consequence Steve wanted to face, so he swallowed his pride, and took the last, bitter taste of acceptance. “Yes Sir...” He said coolly, his tone thick with loathing, and as Steve took a step back, he leveled his gaze with his once more. “Thank you for your tolerance. If everyone offered you the same treatment as you’ve given me I’m sure it would be _exactly_ what you deserve.”

And with the last barbed, double-edged statement, Steve turned, and stalked out the door- this time letting himself be fully removed from the prison grounds.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Steve made it all the way home before the sick, shaky anger gave way to panic.

_Bucky was alone-_

He was facing a legal procedure he had no idea how to handle, _and he was alone!_ And he didn’t even know why…

_Oh god-_

Steve closed the front door to his home behind him with a crash, the keys slipping from his shaking hands to land heavily on the floor, and Steve couldn’t even bring himself to care. His head was spinning, panic and anxiety crawling up his throat and raking at his mind. _He couldn’t think._ He was shaking all over, and his mouth felt dry, and rough. _Bucky was alone...god...Bucky was alone._

In a moment of thoughtless, automatic decision, Steve felt his feet taking him blindly to the home phone mounted on the wall and he yanked it out of it’s cradle, shaky fingers hovering over the keypad. And for a tense, whirling moment, he drew a blank. He needed help, _now,_ but his head was spinning. Who could he even call? His life had been abruptly turned upside down, and Steve suddenly found himself with no idea what he needed, or who he needed to call for it. All he knew was that, somehow, Bucky had to know what had happened. He _couldn’t_ believe he’d abandoned him. He couldn’t let the progress, and trust he’d fostered in him over the past five and a half months be shattered because he disappeared with no explanation. He needed someone who could speak to Bucky. He- He needed-

Steve’s eyes suddenly snapped to the Nelson and Murdock business card that lay on the end table by the door, and he snatched it with shaking fingers, punching in the number as panic rose in his throat. He pressed the phone to his ear, trembling, trying to control his rapidly beating heart. After the second ring, the phone clicked, and he was greeted by the sound of a woman’s voice.

“Nelson and Murdock attorneys at law, this is Karen speaking.”

Steve let out a ragged breath, closing his eyes as he braced his weight on the end table. _“Ms. Karen-_ ” He breathed desperately, remembering the kind, sincere woman with the long blond hair from his visit to the office. “It’s Steve Rogers, I- I need help, are they in? M-Matt and Foggy, I mean. Have they left for the prison?” He asked anxiously, and was met by a soft uncertain sound and the scrape of a chair being pushed back across wood floors.

“No- No, Matt’s here still,” Steve heard the slight shift of a palm being placed over the receiver, and Karen’s muffled voice calling for her associate. The sound cleared a moment later with the rustle of the phone being passed, and Karen’s low murmur of _‘Steve Rogers.’_

“Steve? Is everything alright?”

Steve swallowed hard, his heart slamming in his ears. _No. No. Nothing was alright. Everything was wrong. His career was over and Bucky was alone._ “No-” He managed tightly, his eyes still closed against the stinging, his lashes wet despite his best efforts. “I’ve uh- I’ve been let go, a- and Bucky’s alone, he’s-” His voice broken unexpectedly, and Steve cut off, drawing in a breath, and squeezing his eyes tighter closed. He was shaking again. The wetness on his lashes was spilling down his cheeks. _“Please-”_ Steve tried again, too far gone to even bother hiding the tremor in his voice. “Please just- Just tell him what happened when you speak to him- God- _He can’t believe I abandoned him...please,_ Matt…”

On the other end of the phone, Steve heard a long moment of heavy silence, as though Matt were listening to his very _breathing._ Steve had no doubt he could hear. It was raw, and labored, and wet. Each breath shuddered in and out of his lungs like a massive weight sat on his ribcage- crushing him- squeezing the air out of his body. After several long seconds, Steve heard Matt shift.

 _“Steve…”_ He prompted in a low tone. “Is there something you haven't told me?”

His eyes squeezed tighter closed. His stomach plunged. _But what did it matter now?_ He’d already lost his career? What did it matter if Bucky’s lawyers knew so long as they would still help? Steve let his tongue slide out to wet his lips before he released a low, pained breath. The tears were starting to dry on his cheeks, drawing the skin tight, and itchy. “I...James and I were... _involved_ …” He said carefully, the words faltering, and tight. The fear and panic inside him was beginning to give way to raw hurt, and Steve couldn’t even make himself attend to the soft hum that cracked across the phone’s speakers.

“If you don’t mind...involved how? Romantically? Sexually?”

Steve swallowed hard, blinking his burning eyes open for the first time in several long minutes as helplessness swept through him like a wave. “Uh...Romantically? _N...Neither?_ It’s complicated.” He could almost hear Matt’s faint, tight smile on the other end of the phone.

“Well, we _are_ lawyers. Complicated is a part of our job…Steve, Foggy and I need to know these things. Maybe they’re not what’ll free James, but they’re the kinds of things that will help us understand him better... _this is all for his sake.”_

Steve let out a ragged breath, nodding to himself as he stepped away from the phone base, his hand coming up to rub at the bridge of his nose. Matt was right. There was little enough that could possibly be known about Bucky, and Steve knew more than most. Matt and Foggy deserved everything he could give them... _for Bucky_. “Okay…” He murmured faintly, blinking back the blurriness in his vision as he fixed his gaze on a point on the ceiling, staring hard and willing himself to get through this. ”Bucky...Uh- James...He’d never had anyone touch him before, a- at least not without hurting him and...he was hungry for physical contact… He liked holding hands, and being hugged, a- and kissed…” Steve feverishly wet his lips one more time, his throat tightening, because until this moment in his life, he’d never confessed this to anyone- not even Bucky.

“And I...I _liked_ giving him those things because.. _.I’d...fallen in love with him…”_

It was out now. It was no longer an aching concept trapped in Steve’s mind. He’d spoken it out loud- to a man he trusted...Someone else knew, and somehow that just made it all the more painful, and all the more real. His free hand fell from the bridge of his nose, hanging loosely at his side as Steve’s eyes fell slowly to the floor, a dull, shattered pain blooming up inside his aching heart.

“Bucky...doesn’t love me.” He continued softly, his eyelids lowering, mouth softening despite the pain that twisted like a hot, rusted knife inside of him. “He likes being touched, and...he depends on me...he _trusts_ me, but.. _.he doesn't love me…”_ Steve’s knuckles brushed briefly under his nose, before quickly dashing the pads of his fingers under his left eye, swiping away the hot tears before they could slip down his cheeks. “And…” He swallowed back the tightness in his throat. “And I can be okay with that...cause I just want him to be okay.. _.I don’t need him to love me back._ I just want him _safe…”_

Steve didn’t realize until the softened leather compressed under him that he’d been sinking back onto the couch. His knees had gone weak, his body giving up under the stress, and exhaustion. He felt like sleeping for a hundred years; he felt like curling up in a knot, and sobbing until he succumbed to the physical, and mental fatigue that had been piling on his shoulders for weeks. He’d gone silent, the phone buzzing lowly in his ear.

_“Steve?”_

Matt’s soft voice tugged Steve back from the edge, and he blinked twice, letting out a raw breath of air. “Yeah?”

The phone shifted on the other end, cracking slightly. “Foggy and I will take care of this. We’ll tell James why you can’t be with him, and we’ll be in touch with you for every step of the process...And if I might offer a suggestion?”

Steve shifted, his brow tugging into a little knot. “Uh...yeah?”

“Get some sleep. You sound exhausted, and I promise if there were anything more you could do right now, I would have told you. You can’t help James if you’re fighting fatigue the whole time. Rest. I’ll call back once we’ve spoken to James.”

Slowly, Steve made a soft noise in the back of his throat that translated to something like a confirmation, and nodded. Matt was right. _Again._ He felt weak, and helpless, and spent, but he was no more good to Bucky like this than he was to himself. He hated it, but it was true. After a long second, Steve managed to pull his weary body up off the couch, and scrape the devastated remains of his heart off the floor long enough to pad heavily back to the phone cradle. “Okay…” He murmured dimly, but Matt had proved he had no problems hearing, so Steve didn’t bother raising his voice. A low, raw murmur was the best he could manage anyways. “Okay...I will...t- tell him I’m gonna try and get in to see him. I don’t know if I’ll be allowed...probably not, but I’m gonna try...tell him.. _.I’m sorry…”_

 _“I will.”_ The words were spoken with soft conviction- a promise that made a tiny part of Steve’s tense, aching heart sigh with relief. If nothing else, Bucky would know; he’d know that Steve hadn’t left of him of his own accord. If nothing else, Bucky wouldn’t be left potentially facing _months_ of wondering why the man who’d said he’d never leave him had disappeared less than a day later. As it was, it would be just a few hours. Even the thought of that made Steve’s chest ache; the thought of Bucky waking up exactly on schedule and waiting for him. It would take him less than an hour to know that things weren’t as they should be….and after that...Steve just didn’t want to imagine. But Matt and Foggy would be there soon, and then at least he’d know...it was the only thing Steve could do for him anymore.

“Alright…” He breathed, wetting his lips absently. “Thank you...I-I’ll be here....please, just- _just call…”_

“Promise.” Matt replied, “Good bye, Steve.”

Steve could manage a return farewell before the phone clicked off, and Steve was left standing in the middle of his living room- gutted- with a broken heart, no career, _and no Bucky._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_Something was wrong._

Something was very, _very_ wrong.

Bucky ran his fingers feverishly over the still closed slot. This morning, the lights had flared up abruptly, and without warning, making him flinch under the sudden harshness. Steve always instructed him to close his eyes before he turned them back up...Steve always opened the slot to let in the fresh air, and the sound of his voice...but it wasn’t Steve’s footsteps outside his door. It was still his night guard, despite the fact that it was _long_ past time for Steve to be here, and Bucky felt a frantic scratch of fear building in his chest.

His palm slid over the seam of the door, his organic hand shaking as his tortured mind expanded on his fears. _Steve wouldn’t leave him..._ He- He’d said he wouldn’t leave him, so... _why?_ Why was he gone? Why had Bucky been left alone without explanation, or warning?

The unsettling minutes stretched into an hour, and Bucky’s feet carried him in tiny circled around the floor of his cramped cell. An hour bleed into three, and then four, and Bucky felt the panic inside him mounting, and mounting until shudders wracked his body, and terror consumed his mind. He was shaking all over. Tear spilled blindly down his face and he crouched by one, sticky concrete wall and clung to himself, nursing the fragile hope that Steve would come back to him.

_He had to-_

_He needed him…_

_He’d promised he’d never leave him._

The slot opened with a _snap,_ and Bucky’s head jerked up abruptly, his air escaping his lungs in a gasp. He lurched forward away from the wall, scrambling to the door, as his heart gave a raw twist of relief. He hit the door, his shoulder jarring roughly against it as he grabbed the edge of the slot desperately, fresh tears spilling down his raw cheek. _“Steve-”_ He gasped, pressing his forehead to the door. “God- Steve, I-”

“Feeding position. _Now.”_

The sharpness, and the unfamiliarity of the tone turned Bucky nauseous with shock.

_Not Steve-_

He jerked his hand back, panic crawling up his throat as he yanked away from the slot- away from the unfriendly voice on the other side of the door. He dragged himself back, huge, terrified eyes fixed on the slot before a sharp _crack_ vibrated through the steel door.

“I said, _now.”_

Bucky’s heart jolted, and he doubled forward with a start. He felt sick. A terrified, nauseous tremor ran up his spine as he laid himself on the hard, unforgiving floor and crossed his ankles, and laced his fingers together over the back of his neck. _This was all wrong-_ The door to his cell opened, and the sick panic forced its way further up his throat, a raw whimper escaping him as tears spilled down his face. _This was wrong- Steve was gone, and someone else was in his cell._

His tensed fearfully as his night guard knelt down beside him, hard hands curling around his wrists to move them behind his back. Bucky shuddered- _he was being touched_ \- someone other than Steve was touching him, and the sour stench of his blind terror seeped from every pore in his skin. He tried to lay still- he tried not to betray the blind, sick terror that raced through him, but he couldn’t stop the awful trembling. He could stop the soft, broken noises that slipped his lips as he was bound by the hostile force, and made completely helpless.

As the mesh spit guard was yanked unceremoniously over his head, Bucky let out a shattered _yelp_ of fear, his chin tucking sharply into his chest. Steve always sat him up before putting the guard on. He always stroked his cheeks, and looked him in the eyes, murmuring soft comforts to him as the thing came down around his head. He was so delicate with it, that Bucky had learned not to fear it...but the night guard just tightened the drawstring irritably, and grabbed the back of his right arm, yanking him to his tethered feet. “Come on-” He muttered in an agitated undertone. “You’ve got visitors.”

 _“Steve?”_ Bucky breathed haltingly, his shattered, gray blue eyes turning to the guard as he pulled him along. The man’s expression was tense, tired, and irritated; clearly frustrated at still being here this late in the day instead of asleep. His mouth tightened unkindly.

“If he were here this would be _his_ job, and I’d be home. Keep moving.”

Bucky swallowed shakily, and focused on taking as long a stride as he could with his tethered ankles, stumbling to keep up with the agitated night guard.

He didn’t try to speak to him again.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The guard deposited him in a room Bucky had never seen before. It was white, and impersonal, with a huge panel of one way glass, and a door with only a very small window. He was strapped into a heavy chair that was bolted to the ground, and his tethered ankles were bound to the heavy legs. It made him feel helpless, and small. He felt exposed, vague memories of being strapped into chairs drifting through the chaotic fog of his memories. There was _the_ chair of course...the one that brought pain so violent it scraped every other thought from his mind...the one that Steve had said made him forget...but he’d been bound to other chairs to, to be punished. Sometimes, he was left there for _days;_ other times, he was strapped down, while his past handlers did everything Steve had refused to do.

Bucky unconsciously tried to move his thighs closer together, but the way his ankles were bound to the legs prevented it. He was helpless, and exposed, and...and _scared_... _he was so scared…_

_He just wanted Steve..._

The door cracked open, and Bucky’s head snapped up, his chest expanding with a huge breath as his shattered eyes stared through the mesh hood. Two men entered- _unfamiliar men_. One carried a stack of files under his arms; the other carried a cane, but there was something behind his dark glasses that Bucky couldn’t trust. He carried the cane, but the way he used it suggested it was a mere formality, and Bucky didn’t trust someone who kept up appearances. This man was dangerous, and his partner was shrewd, and Bucky pulled back in his chair, drawing in shuddering breaths through his teeth. They would hurt him, because Steve was the only one who’d ever refused to do so. Why would these men break the mold too?

_“James Barnes?”_

Bucky jerked like he’d been punched in the heart, his head snapping over to the shorter of the two; the one with the files, and the longer hair. His wide, frightened eyes drank him in, blinking rapidly as confusion dumped into the toxic mixture of aggression, and abandonment, and fear. As far as Bucky knew, Steve was the only living person who knew his real name. The prison called him John Doe, or 088074. Steve was the only one to ever call him James, or, in turn, _Bucky._

The two men took their seats across from him, attentive, but not staring, despite his obvious fear, and excessive bonds. The shorter man placed the files on the table between them, sparing his partner a brief look before turning his eyes back to Bucky. “I’m Foggy Nelson, and this is my partner, Matt Murdock. _We’re here to help you.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up on thursday. And as always, I eagerly await every thought and comment you want to share with me. <3


	13. Regression

Bucky stared at the two men across the table from him, his mouth slack, body going numb, but his heart- _god-_ he _wished_ his heart would be numb. He wished it would be numb because suddenly he was lanced with an imploding, devastating pain so violent he felt as though his ribcage had shattered. He felt as though it had crushed inward to impale every inch of his mangled and abused heart, and the only thing that could loop through his scarred mind was that _it couldn’t be true._

The blind attorney had spoken the words to him, quiet, and soft, but not sugar coating the bitter truth. He’d told him that Steve was gone...that he’d been let go, and that he wouldn’t be able to see him...Steve wouldn’t be allowed back onto the prison complex, much less let in to see a high security prisoner. He was a civilian now, with no claim to Bucky at all. He was no longer his handler- his guard- his _caretaker,_ and Bucky would be handed off to someone who he could never trust; who he’d never be able to surrender himself to and still know he wouldn’t be hurt. Bucky wouldn’t be allowed to taste small measures of freedom, or be granted the simple pleasures of having his lights dimmer, or of holding a warm, gentle hand.

But it _couldn’t_ be true... _Steve couldn’t be gone…_

Bucky felt shock flush his system with freezing cold. His chest stilled, heart stuttering sickly in his chest as a cold like death spread through his body. And the world stopped for a heavy second before agony began to bleed, thick, and congealed from his devastated heart.

_"No-"_ The single word was soft, and fractured, Bucky's expression going slack and ashen as the lawyer’s words seeped through his skin and spread, like poison, through his bloodstream. Steve couldn't be gone. He...he _needed_ him....he didn't deserve to be let go. It wasn't fair- _"No-"_ Bucky tried again, his voice breaking as he looked up at Matt, pain turning his bleeding soul suspicious, and aggressive, and his brow drew into a knot, his head jerking in a ragged shake. "No- he can’t- he _promised."_ Bucky pressed, because to Bucky’s twisted, damaged psyche, Steve was an infallible being. If he promised never to abandon him, nothing in the _world_ could violate that. And that meant that his only option was to believe that the two strangers were lying to him. His body coiled with aggression, and tension, the bonds around his chest and arms growing more constricting as his muscles tightened under his skin.  

“James…” Matt started, his tone firm, and cautionary, yet not unkind. “Steve had no choice. He was removed from his position. He didn’t _decided_ to leave you, _or_ break his promise, but it doesn't change the fact that he’s incapable of coming back to you right now…” He said levelly. whether Bucky believed it or not, it was the truth, and the sooner he could accept it, the sooner they could work towards freeing him. Bucky’s growing panic held no place in that, and as insensitive as it seemed, a part of it was _very_ necessary. Because the truth of the matter was that, for the present time, Steve was out of Bucky’s life, and the only way to remedy that was to free Bucky. And to free Bucky, he and Foggy needed to be able to do their job.

“Steve’s doing the best he can from the outside.” Matt pressed on, listening to the rapidly, panicked slamming of his client’s heart. “When we spoke, he was upset, and worried for you...He wanted you to understand that he never would have chosen to leave you. But he also wants you _free,_ and if you let my partner and I help you, we may be able to do that…”

Bucky looked up sharply, the aggression that had flared towards the two lawyers burning down to raw hurt, and helplessness. His muscles went slack, his expression drawing with hurt as his eyes fell away from them. He stared at his lap helplessly, his heart shredded, eyes suddenly burning with tears. _It wasn’t fair.._.How could he trust these men? How could he face all this without Steve? In Bucky’s experience, _everyone_ was suspect; everyone had motives, and agendas, and _everyone_ was likely to hurt him. Steve had been the one exception, and now he was gone...and he was expected to hand the tiny, fragile scrap of trust Steve had helped him build over to _them?_ To him, that was as senseless as Bucky’s mounting panic was to his attorneys.

So they were at an impasse. A point of tension they couldn’t move past. Because Matt and Foggy could do nothing without Bucky’s cooperation, and some measure of trust, and Bucky was too badly scarred from his past, and too devastated from losing Steve to loosen his hold on that trust. He clutched it close to his bleeding heart and forced up wall as thick as lead to keep the only people who could help him out...he... _he just wanted to curl up and sob_...he just wanted to hear Steve’s gentle, reassuring voice, and feel his comforting hands on his body...He just wanted Steve... _He just wanted Steve…_

Matt pressed his lips into a thin line. He could hear all the signs of Bucky’s attitude. His energy reeked of aggression, and mistrust, and he didn’t need to see him to know his eyes were locked bitterly on his figure, and his chest was heaving in ragged breaths. But Matt knew beyond all that, that the man across from him, in the core of his being, was deeply, _deeply_ afraid. Steve had been his one link to some sense of safety, and wellbeing, and now that link was gone. Bucky had been cut loose, and set adrift in an endless, violent sea of uncertainty, and shattered trust. Somehow, even from a distance, Matt had to reestablish that link if they had any hope at all of helping this broken man.  He leaned forward just slightly, despite the aggressive, and mutinous look his client shot him, his folded hands flexing on the table. “James, do you want Steve? Do you want to see him again?”

Bucky felt the words jab at his broken heart like a hot poker, and he ducked his chin against his collar, the mesh hood shifting around his skull. Of course he did... _all_ he wanted was Steve, and the prod at his shattered heart let anguished hurt well up inside him, and Bucky bit the tip of his tongue until he tasted blood. These strangers couldn’t see him cry. They’d never understand the way Steve did. They’d hurt him. After a long moment, Bucky gave a stiff nod, his stomach in knots.

Foggy inclined his head just slightly towards his partner. “He nodded.” He intoned softly, and Bucky’s eyes snapped up in aggressive, suspicious confusion, before he remembered the unseeing eyes behind the dark glasses. Matt gave a small nod of thanks to his partner, before his face turned back to Bucky.

“The fact is, Mr. Barnes, if you want to get back to Steve we need your cooperation. We need to share a lot of legal procedure with you, and we need you to share everything you know about yourself, and your background with Hydra, with us. If we can’t manage this as your legal council, we’re at a stalemate.” For a second Matt paused, listening to the subtle changes in James’s vitals, he waited until his attention was focused, until his heart rate had slowed just a tiny bit, before he parted his lips once again. “Steve came to us because he needed help to bring you justice. He hand picked us out of every firm in the state, and that means he _trusts us_ with your care…” Matt inclined his head slightly, his unseeing gaze still directed near Bucky’s face. “Steve has incredibly good judgment of character…” He said softly. “He saw _yours_ even while everyone told him you were a heartless killer...if you have any faith in that judgment at all, you’ll let my associate and I help…”

Bucky found his eyes fixed on the blind man’s face, his body racing with fear, and indecision, his stomach in a sick knot. He’d never considered that before...but the thought of placing his trust with two strangers, hand picked by Steve or not, still made him dizzy with fear. He drew in a shaking breath, his brow knotting, mouth slack with unspoken words, throat, tight with a restrained sob. Foggy shifted slightly in his seat.

“Let’s start simple,” Foggy proposed, flipping open the top file. “We can get to talking about background information, and evidence eventually, but for right now, lets just talk about process, hm?” Matt turned his face towards his partner, one corner of his mouth twitching as he gave him an approving nod. “What we’re looking at, for a first step, is getting you an appeal, which we’ve already addressed with the DA. Essentially, this is showing up, and proving we have enough evidence to get your last sentence thrown out, and get you retried. That’s the first step, are you with me?”

At being addressed so casually, Bucky looked up, confusion flickering across his face. This was all too much. He was reeling from the lose of Steve, and wrestling with his fear of letting these two men close enough to his injured heart to hurt him. He was so hesitant to give them any ground...he was so scared that they’d keep claiming more and more, until they were right within reach of his broken heart, and that was somewhere he only wanted Steve _ever_ again. But the man kept looking at him, level, and steady, and Bucky haltingly gave him a tiny nod. He begrudged the faltering motion, but Foggy merely nodded in response, his expression easing.

_“Good._ After the appeal comes the retrial. You’ll be brought before a different judge, and tried by jury to be resentenced within the confines of acceptable law. You're biggest danger is that there's nothing keeping the judge from sentencing you as harshly, or even harsher than before, except for _your_ evidence and testimony, so it's critical that we make that as strong as possible. Now-" Foggy continued. "You've already been seated with a life sentence, so luckily for you, things can't get much worse, but if you wanna go _free-_ if you wanna get back to your life and get back to Steve- you need to work with us. Can you do that? As half of your legal council I'd strongly advise it."

Bucky drew in a steadying breath, wetting his chapped lips haltingly, his chin lowering. What he was saying made sense...Bucky didn't have a life to go back to, but he was right about Steve, and the situation settled over him like a cold, wet fog. To most peopled the decision would be simple, and at least slightly optimistic; comply, and he could be free and be back with the man he so depended on. But to Bucky, it was a bleak, and terrifying prospect; bare his carefully guarded heart to untrustworthy strangers on the off chance that they would bring him back to Steve, rather than hurt him the way everyone else had. To Bucky, the odds of these men turning out to actually be wanting to help him were _astronomical,_ but...as slim a chance as it was, it was still a chance that he could possibly see Steve again...so what else could he do?

Slowly, Bucky raised his shattered eyes to his attorneys, his gaze swimming with hurt, reluctance, and fear, but he parted his lips none the less, letting out a raw, shallow exhale. "What do I have to do?"  
It was the first break Matt and Foggy had gotten since entering the room, and Foggy spared a glance over at his companion. But Matt merely touched the cap of Foggy's knee under the table, his face remaining turned towards Bucky.

"Start as far back as you remember. Every little thing helps."  
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It took Bucky almost an hour to get past murmuring only two or three words with prompting, and another hour until the tight, guarded words started edging towards relevant. But one by one, more pertinent information slipped his dry, chapped lips, and his eyes grew dull, and glassy.

He’d broken, but he’d broken all wrong.

Instead of finally letting go of some of the raw, gnawing terror inside him, and letting himself trust them, Bucky slipped back into blind, helpless obedience. Steve was gone, which meant these men were his handlers now... _no_...his _new guard_ would be his hander, _these men_ were his _technicians…_ They asked him endless questions, and scratched down notes on pads of papers. They rifled through files, and asked him about emotional, and mental responses to information. They were his technicians, and so Bucky obeyed them. ‘ _No_ ’ was not an acceptable answer, and when dredging through his memories started to make his head throb, he carefully hid any traces of discomfort. He kept his face neutral, and focused on regulating his heartbeat. The blind lawyer, with the dark glasses reacted differently depending on the rate of his heart, and the realization unsettled Bucky to his core. But he stifled that response too.

He let go of _Bucky._ He let go of the man Steve had gently coaxed him back to, and became the Asset once more.

He answered numbly, and without hesitation, all the while the more tender, more vulnerable person Steve had eased to the surface _sobbed,_ and _flinched_ where he’d been locked inside. Bucky felt like acid had been poured directly into his brain, he screamed, and sobbed for respite while the Asset continued to comply with low, quiet words, and a dead, distant stare.

_He just wanted to sleep..._

_Steve_ knew what questions did to Bucky. He handled them well, but only for so long, until it started to hurt him to remember. He would ask his gentle questions, and then ease off without pursuing anything else further. These were the things his lawyers didn’t know- the things Matt _couldn’t_ read beneath their client’s rigorously controlled heart rate. _So they kept asking_. The mental anguish of recalling what Hydra had done to him, and of digging through the shrapnel of his shattered past was worse than almost any physical pain he’d felt in a long time. It was worse than the pepper spray, and the chemical burns he’d received here. It was worse than being tased, or left in the inhumanly bright cell while the lights had been cranked higher- and higher- He felt pressure behind his eyes, and a throbbing ache in his jaw. His mind was burning- _scalding,_ and all Bucky wanted to do was sob...but the Asset kept answering question...responding like the tool he was designed to be, and locking the abused, terrified young man away deep inside him where the technicians couldn’t see.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

There was something wrong, but Matt couldn’t place it.

For almost three hours now, he and Foggy had sat across from their client, and poured over testimonies, and statements; evidence, and memories. At first, it had been difficult getting him to speak. James had been scared, and suspicious, and upset, but somewhere along the line, a switch had flipped inside him. Matt had _hoped_ it was some tiny scrap of trust. James had begun speaking more freely to them...but the more he’d spoken, the more Matt realized that something else had shifted as well.

_There was no emotion._

His heart rate had gone level- _not_ unconsciously, _that_ much Matt could tell, but it was level all the same. Their client had begun policing his heart rate, but the emotion had drained from his voice. It was flat...resigned, and at first, Matt let it slide, because for the first time, they were getting the information they needed to _help_ this man. James was divulging everything he could possibly remember about Hydra, and about all the things they’d done to him...all the things they’d _made_ him do.

_It was horrifying..._

Matt kept his expression neutral, listening with half an ear to the increases and decreases of his partner’s heart rate as James spoke flatly of shattered fragments of memories. _Very_ little was complete, but he spoke of being strapped down for _days,_ and of being semi-conscious while a technician took a bone saw to what remained of his left arm. He spoke of memories of injections that left him burning from inside his veins to deep in his bones, while his mind conjured horrific hallucinations of his skin peeling from his muscles, and of creeping shadows sliding slick, wet tongues over his throat and body. Their charge referenced vague memories of punishments of _every_ nature. He spoke flatly of his uses as an Asset; of how he could be a sniper, ground soldier, spy, test subject, or sexual object. When gently prompted, he emotionlessly provided them with context, and examples.

And that’s what began to bother Matt.

_Traumatic_ didn’t _begin_ to describe the things James was divulging to them. He been tortured, physically, and psychologically. He’d been raped, used as a rat lab, and forced to kill. His body had been modified without his consent, and his life- _everything_ he loved, and _everything_ that made him an individual -a human being- had been carved out of him with violence, and manipulation… And he told them everything without so much as a _flinch._ And suddenly, Matt began to understand why their client had focused so much energy on controlling his heart rate.

All of this was affecting him _just_ as viscerally as it would anyone else, if not _more_ considering his fragile psyche...but James was hiding it from them. Like a wounded animal, he was tucking away his mental, and emotional torment because of _exactly_ what they’d known since the moment they’d walked it.

_James was scared of them._

Foggy set the file he’d been working his way through on the second stack, lifting yet another from the first as he flipped it open. _“Okay…”_ He murmured, his tone weary from the hours spent, and the emotional impact of their client's soft, level words. “Let’s...continue, I guess. Mr. Barnes, in the digital records from-”

Before he could continue, Foggy felt a feather light brush against his wrist, and faltered, glancing over. Matt’s fingertips rested against his skin. His mouth was tight, discomfort suddenly etching his face, and Foggy’s hand stilled clumsily on the page that he was in the process of turning. “From the...uhm…” Foggy blinked twice before looking up to the stone faced man bound to the chair across from them. “Uh- Mr. Barnes, I need a moment with my partner, if you’ll excuse us.”

The man barely blinked as Matt and Foggy stood up, slipping away from their chairs and closing the door to the small room behind them. Outside, Matt turned immediately to his partner.

“Foggy, we need to adjourn this session. _Right now.”_ He said, still monitoring the muffled sound of Bucky’s heartbeat through the closed door. The minute the door had shut behind them it had grown erratic.

Foggy looked up at him, his eyes flashing back through the small window to the low stack of files left. “Matt,” He countered, glancing back to him. “We’re almost done. We get through the rest of this and we can keep the ball rolling.” But Matt was already shaking his head, his mouth tightening.

“Foggy- trust me on this. All this nightmarish stuff he’s telling us about? That happened to _him_ . He _remembers_ that, and you think he’s just, _not reacting?_ He’s been regulating his heartbeat, so it took me a while to notice but...I think we pushed him too far. I think we crossed the line into _too far_ a _long_ time ago, and he’s so scared, and messed up he doesn’t want us to know.” Foggy’s brow knotted at the words, his eyes flitting back to the little room.

“The sooner we get this done, the sooner he gets out, that’s what we want right? Matt, we’re trying to get this guy _free-”_ Foggy protested, his mind in the right place, but his heart missing the significance of his partner’s words.

Matt grimaced, shaking his head. “No.” He said firmly. “We stop this. _Now._ He’s _scared_ of us, Foggy.” Matt pressed. “Otherwise why would he be acting like this- _think about it._ He’s been controlled, and used, and made to follow orders without questioning for almost a century, and now, two men he doesn't know, or trust are asking him the details of his life that he only _barely_ remembers. And that stuff is _horrific_ . So he’s got two choices, he either shuts down emotionally and refuses to answer all while ‘knowing’ he’ll be hurt.... _Or he obeys orders_.” His voice trailed off, softening, as the gravity of their client's mental trauma slowly sunk into Foggy’s business-geared mind. The shorter man’s mouth tightened, his brow drawing in a look of discomfort, and Matt glanced down. “Which do you figure he’d do?”      

Foggy stood across from him in silence for a long moment, before he drew in a steadying breath, his head dipping in a tiny nod. “You’re right. We need to adjourn. We’ll come back another day.” Matt nodded his agreement, gripping Foggy’s shoulder briefly before the two attorney's stepped back into the closed, stale little room.

“Mr. Barnes,” Matt said levelly, not taking his seat again, but standing instead, his hands clasped in front of him. “We’re sorry to have kept your for so long; the afternoon escaped us-” _Better James believe his tactic had succeeded._ It would save him from further guilt, and fear. “My partner and I have agreed that it would be best for us to cover the rest another time.”

_Internally,_ Bucky almost sobbed with relief.

Everything in him hurt. Everything in him was raw; flinching and sobbing at every new line of questioning that his tormented mind was forced to endure. But they were _done_... The technicians had finished prodding at his psyche. They were done taking their notes, and asking their questions that his mouth answered with duty-driven resignation even though it anguished him to even _try_ to remember. He’d become aware of things he’d never been aware of before as the technicians had dug their hands through the gory, shredded remains of his mind; digging their fingers into open sores, and raking their nails through putrefied, half-closed wounds. It had been torture like he hadn’t felt since he’d been locked away from Hydra…

_Externally,_ the Asset blinked his hollow, dead eyes, turning his gaze to the other man.

Foggy inclined his head in a confirming nod, his mouth turning up in a small smile. It wasn’t presumptuous, or over friendly, but it was soft... _encouraging_. Once their client’s guarded distress, had been pointed out to him, Foggy felt a heavy sense of guilt and responsibility weighting in the pit of his stomach, and all he wanted was to somehow make that right. “We’ll schedule another time to come in and speak with you. But you helped us learn a lot today. This is all the more the we can use to help you get the justice you deserve. _We’re gonna help you out of here_.” Foggy added, his tone softening a little bit, as though he could somehow make the tortured creature understand why he’d been subjected to so much mental agony. But the encouraging tone coaxed nothing but an impersonal nod from their client before he lowered his eyes submissively. Foggy spared a heavy, guilty glance at his partner, before loosely brushing his knuckles against his elbow, and Matt nodded once.

“We’ll be in touch Mr. Barnes, and thank you again for your cooperation. “ Matt said softly, before he and Foggy turned, and reluctantly left the room.

Foggy closed the door softly behind him, gesturing loosely to the guard outside the door that they were finished before falling into step with Matt. "Well... _now_ I feel like a jackass…” He said his tone laced with fake cheer, that thinly veiled the genuine _hurt_ he felt at not recognizing the complex motives behind Bucky’s mask. He liked to consider himself a shark; a ruthless businessman in it to line his own pockets and help the innocent if those two _happened_ to go hand in hand. But Matt, better than anyone, knew he had a good heart. And Matt, better than anyone, knew that the way the session had gone upset Foggy. He felt his partner’s hand grip his shoulder, tugging him in close as his mouth turned into a tense, rueful smile.

“We’ll be more careful, and if nothing else, we’ll make it up to him by getting him out of here as soon as humanly possible.” He said in a low tone, before clapping Foggy between his shoulder blades, his hand slipping into his pocket. “Now...I’m gonna call Steve and update him on the progress... _and the setback.”_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He was alone in the room for less than a minute before a man entered, slamming the door with a violent shudder behind him. Bucky curled in on himself with blind fear, but the Asset didn’t flinch. The Asset stared dead ahead, leaving the terrified, lost man trapped inside; _sick,_ and _exhausted,_ and wanting nothing more than to curl up in the arms of the only man who’d ever refused to hurt him, and sleep. But the tiny shred of happiness he’d clung to- the _only_ shred he’d been given in his limited memory- had been ripped away from him. _Steve was gone_ , and he’d been replaced by the aggressive presence in the room; by the man who would treat him like every single handler in the past. With violence, or disregard for his life and wellbeing…

The man that had replaced Steve was one he’d never seen before- tall, broad, and strapped with heavy, obvious muscle. His hair was dark and close cut, and he wore the uniform of a guard, though the taser that was supposed to hang on his belt swung with loose confidence in his hand at his side. He looked like he was _itching_ it use it, given the smallest excuse, his thumb stroking over the trigger with something like reverence. To him, it was a weapon designed to be used to inspire control, and order; not to hang, useless, on a belt loop. He strolled forward. His persona oozed self-assurance, and stank of ill-intent.

“So,” He said, low, and heavy, though the word carried the perverse undertones of a casual conversation. It felt mocking. “You’re the _Winter Soldier_ I’ve heard so much about.” His footsteps took him slowly around the back of his chair, before slowly circling around to the front again, his eyes dragging over his bound figure, boring through the light, mesh hood to his impassive face. He gave a subtle shug, every movement dripping with insincerity and mockery. “I heard rumors that you were behind the Kennedy assassination...That you took out that inventor, uh- Stark, _yeah-_ Howard Stark. I’ve heard stories about whole _army bases-_ guards dead on the perimeters, and the others still in their barracks with every single throat slit open,” His dark, malicious eyes shifted over, and he turned slowly, his mouth cracking into a smirk that couldn’t have been more unlike the soft, tender smiles Steve had graced him with.

“But you know what?” He smirked, strolling forward and suddenly setting the tread of his boot heavily on the seat of the chair between Bucky’s thighs, the tip jamming painfully between his legs as he leaned into Bucky’s personal space. “I’m actually little underwhelmed. I was expecting more. I was expecting a little grit from you...I’m given the privilege of guarding Hydra’s _deadliest_ weapon-...and he’s a _pretty boy._ ”

The Asset stared straight through, unmoving, unblinking; just surviving until the second he could be alone. His new guard’s words washed over him numbly, leaving him feeling dead, and hollow, as grainy images of soldiers with gushing, sliced throats flickered in the back of his mind. His mind tactically riffled through every word that his new guard had spoken to him- sorting, and categorizing it, unconsciously profiling the man in front of him. _Disregard of personal space to establish dominance. Use of effeminizing language to degrade. Assessment: Increased potential for physical and sexual violence. Verbal abuse potential 96% probability._

The man’s smirk twitched at the corners, and then twisted, as he lifted the taser, heavy, but still mockingly casual to press against the soft underside of his jaw, the short, metal prongs slipping easily through the mesh hood. For the first time, the Asset’s mask fractured just slightly, his breath hitching in his chest as the prongs pressed in- and in, deeper, and deeper until he had no choice but to lift his face level with his guard’s. The smirked had turned ugly, and with heavy, purposeful movements, he grabbed the back of Bucky’s head with his free hand, fingers digging into the joint of his neck and skull. “ _I think…_ ” He said lowly, “that as long as you do exactly as I say, and we’ll get along just fine.” The taser pressed harder up into the soft flesh of Bucky’s underjaw, the prongs deeply bruising the fragile skin. “But you budge an _inch_ without my say so, and I can do a lot worse than just tase you.”

A heavy breath of silence spanned between them, steel blue eyes meeting the harsh, dark green of his handler’s as the man’s grip tightened. His fingers dug points of deep, bruising pain into his neck, the taser -held against his throat with such confidence- leaving deep, dark purple marks in his flesh. The man took him in with derision, and disgust, mockery dripping from every pore in his body. And suddenly his new guard released him with a jerk, and stepped back, relieving the pressing of his boot from against the soft joint of Bucky’s hip and thigh.

Almost immediately, he set to work unstrapping him from the chair, and the Asset held utterly still. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breath. _He couldn’t handle one more thing_. After everything that had happened today, after being left _confused, abandoned,_ and _alone_ in his cell, after being dragged here, and told Steve was gone...After being subjected to hours of mental, and emotional torment that he’d kept locked deep in his chest... _he couldn’t take one more thing_...He couldn’t handle being punished anymore today or...or he was going _break._ He was going to fracture, and then shattered under the weight of the stress, and pain, and fear, and then...then they’d just hurt him more. Because an Asset was supposed to obey orders. His only individual purpose in life was to not malfunction so that he would continue to be useful...so he wouldn’t be hurt... _god...please...just don’t hurt him…._

He sat rigid as he was unstrapped from the chair, trying to limit his movements as much as possible even while he felt like he had liquid nitrogen running through his veins- even when he felt like he was freezing, and burning, and scalding away from the inside out. When the man grabbed the back of his arm and yanked him to his feet, he lurched, his stomach dropping sickly, but he shifted his feet quickly, managing not to stumble. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and swallowed back the sudden urge to scream in raw torment, and panic as the prongs of the taser jabbed into the base of his spine to drive him forward. The guard’s grip was hard, and cruel, digging into his skin and muscle as he dragged him back through impersonal white hallways and into his hot, bright, personal compartment of _hell._ He was shoved to his knees, his guard pressing in against his back, and the low, suggestive words that were hissed beside his ear made Bucky’s stomach twist with fear, and nausea. They washed over him, leaving him feeling cold, and shaky, a freezing sweat breaking out across his body, before his ears rang with a harsh bark of laughter, and he was jammed down, face first against the concrete floor. The Asset stared blindly, and didn’t move as his bonds were undone, and the spit guard was yanked from over his head. He lay on the hot, sticky concrete floor as his guard stood up, and when the door sealed closed behind him, he couldn’t even quite make himself move.

And as the door locked, the Asset _shattered._

Bucky let out a broken shuddering gasp and curled in on himself, his knees drawing up close as he tucked his head between his arms, a violent tremor wracking his body. _He felt sick_ \- he felt absolutely ill, and a raw sob tore from his throat so unexpected, and loud that it ricocheted sharply around the tiny space. He flinched as it reverberated around him, his flesh hand clapping over his mouth to muffle a second cry.

_Why had this happen?_

For the first time in his life he’d felt something like _happiness._ He had someone he depended on...someone he _trusted_ to care for him...Someone he never had to fear would terrorize, or hurt, or starve him. He’d had _Steve...Steve_ who’d held his hand, and stroked his thumb across the backs of his knuckles; who’d hugged him, and coaxed him through his fear of the spit guard so that he would be allowed outside... _Steve_ who kissed him with warm, soft lips, and told him he had a choice...told him he believed he was _innocent,_ and _good_...Bucky had _almost_ been happy...and suddenly, it had been ripped away from him. Suddenly, everything that had been left of a heart, and soul inside of him felt like it had been torn out, leaving him gapping, and gutted; nothing more that a single weeping, open sore.

_Steve was gone._ He’d been subjected to men who tore into his damaged mind like it was a race to see who’s question could hurt him the worst- could shatter his mask of restraint. He’d been assigned a new guard who hurt, threatened, and degraded him, and... _and Steve was gone…_

_Steve was gone._

_Steve was gone._

Hopelessness ripped through him like a bullet, and Bucky’s arms clenched around his stomach as it rolled violently, cramping, and twisting until he thought he would vomit. His knees drew up tighter, his eyes squeezing closed as tears rolled, hot, and raw down his cheeks. He just wanted Steve...He missed his gentle care and the warmth of his smile...the softness of his kind blue eyes. He missed being kissed, and held, and a part of him was very afraid that he was never going to feel that again.

And suddenly, all Bucky could do was cry.

He lay on the hard, unforgiving floor and cried until his throat was stripped, and raw, and his body had coiled into knots of tension from the violent shudders that wracked his body. He clenched his hands until his fingernails cut bleeding crescents into his right palm, and until his metal left arm burnt hot with the pressure. He cried until the door shuddered under a cruel blow, spurring him to flinch with a ragged sob. And when his guard snapped at him, Bucky jammed the knuckles of his right hand into his mouth to muffle the helpless sounds.

_He just wanted Steve._

_He just wanted Steve..._

_He just wanted Steve…._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, you know the drill! I'll see you in five days, and I treasure every thought you want to share with me. It's such a huge motivation for my writing.   
> Speaking of, I have also posted up the first chapter of a new fic, in case you all haven't had enough Stucky pain from me yet.
> 
> [How They Make You A Weapon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5666218/chapters/13051999)  
> Summary:  
>  _Hydra knows Captain America is their greatest enemy, but when time travel technology allows them to slip back through the threads of time, Hydra finds itself presented with an opportunity too golden to pass up: The opportunity to kidnap twenty year old Steve Rogers from his own time, and bring him to to present.  
>  It alters history- skews it in Hydra's favor- and furnishes them with the perfect subject to turn their greatest enemy into their greatest asset. But Hydra didn't account for two, tiny details: That the Winter Soldier would remember the golden haired boy from his childhood, and that Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes -no mater the circumstances- would burn the world to keep each other safe._
> 
> So if you feel like experiencing more pain, only with miniature Steve, take a peek. I'd love to hear your thoughts. <3


	14. Appeal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Please head the warnings in the updated tags for this chapter for non-consesual touching, and threat of rape.

The Technicians had returned five days later, and Bucky- absolutely _sick_ with fear- let himself be taken back to them. They would hurt him, he _knew._ They would pry, and question him, and claw through his psyche until it was bleeding putrefied hurt, and old, rotten terror.  They would tear him away layer by layer until nothing was left of him but a quivering, mangled soul, stripped bare of all protection...He'd never survive another assessment like the last one...but nonetheless, he boxed in, and sealed, away every trace of Bucky Barnes, and the Asset let himself be led obediently to the slaughter.

But the Technicians had changed.

The time before...the awful first time, they’d been _relentless,_ firing question after question, digging for examples, and individual instances. They'd gone three hours without rest, pushing until Bucky thought he'd shatter, but this time…this time the questions were different. They still pressed for information, but the phrasing was softer, and they often stopped, letting Bucky sit in silence until the throbbing in his head died down. They requested that he be brought water, and that his hands be briefly freed so he could drink, and get the circulation back in his fingers.

He didn't know what had changed, but he was grateful…

There was something in the Technicians that, as much as Bucky’s suspicious and abused mind was reluctant to believe it, was something like Steve. They weren’t _exactly_ like the man he was so dedicated to, but their voices were patient, and their words were bound up in a kind of good-intent that Bucky was unused to. After the first time, something had changed, and Nelson and Murdock seemed to genuinely want to help him. Bucky didn’t _trust_ them, but their good intentions were still the first consideration he'd received since being assigned his new guard.

His initial assessment of the guard had been correct.

He was verbally aggressive near _constantly,_ and _physically_ violent any time opportunity presented itself. He shoved him during transport, only to strike him with a brutal blow from his nightstick across the back of his shoulderblades when he stumbled. He would wrench him up by the back of his head, snarling threats if he made an unexpected move again.

The only fortunate thing was that any sexual violence was contained within lewd comments hissed low in his ear while he was crouched over his back to cuff, and tether him- but it was a power play. His guard liked the feeling of control it gave him to objectify his prisoner. He did it because he _could._ He did it to prove that if he _wanted_ to harass him, he was fully capable. And he did it to prove there was _nothing_ Bucky could do to stop it. After all- he was just a prisoner, He had no freedom of choice of his own; no say in his treatment...and the one person who would defend him was never coming back.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Steve lay on his couch, eyes half-closed, and fixed distantly on some point far beyond the off-white ceiling of his living room. It had been _twenty three days_ since he’d been fired... _twenty three days_ since Bucky had been left behind- _alone,_ and uncared for- in that harsh, and cruel place… Since the day his career had come crumbling down around his head, Steve had felt listless, and empty. He felt purposeless without a job, and terribly... _terribly_ lonely without Bucky…

He _missed_ him…

Being separate from Bucky hadn’t, in any way, cooled Steve’s affections. The feelings hadn’t faded, or grown cold without seeing him on an almost daily basis. The only thing it had done was twist his desperate, loving soul with a guilt so violent and terrible he thought it’d kill him. Every time he thought about Bucky- about how much he _still_ loved him, he was reminded that he was alone...He was reminded that -his decision or not- he’d been the one to leave him that way. And it hurt almost more than Steve could stand. It ate him from the inside out, until the most positive emotion Steve could conjure for himself was _emptiness._ It was that, or agonized longing and guilt that speared through his tattered heart like a white-hot needle.

Every day for the past week had been an empty day...until today.

Until today, he’d just felt numb, and hollow, and directionless. He’d just drifted from couch, to bed, to kitchen. He’d wandered outside to check his mailbox and blindly sorted through the stack of bills. His biggest accomplishment in almost a month was maintaining a semi-normal eating schedule...In the back of his mind, Steve knew that was really just plain _sad,_ but the rest of his devastated heart told him it was an accomplishment. He could have stopped eating all together. He could have laid on his couch, and wasted away but...he’d gotten up. That was good, _right?_ He made himself something small to eat at lunch, and something a little bigger at dinner, so... _he was still doing okay._ He was _eating,_ and that meant he was okay. It meant he wasn’t slipping closer and closer to the looming, suffocating wall of depression that hovered in the back of his mind.

In a way, it became a delusional lifeline, like making food twice a day was all it took. He told himself that it meant he was still in a manageable place, that he didn’t need help. Sure he was tired...all the time. Yeah he slept more of the day then he ever had before and _still_ felt exhausted by evening...and his chest felt hollowed out and empty...Sure washing dishes felt as monumental as scaling a mountain, and the thought of making himself get up to shower made him want to curl up and die. But... _he was still okay_. He was fine. _As long as he was eating, he wasn’t depressed._

But then this- this twenty third day came around, and Steve slipped harder, and faster than he’d thought possible.

If he had still had a job- a career….today would have marked the seventh month he’d known Bucky. He’d taken up his guard on the sixth of January, and today was the sixth of August. It wasn’t a year- it wasn’t an anniversary, but it was a milestone of sorts...a milestone that he _should have_ been by Bucky’s side for. Chances were, had he been able to be with him, the day would have come and gone without a thought, but being away...the distance made it feel sharper- more significant, and Steve felt the pain of the loss as sharply as he’d felt it the very first day.

He hadn't been able to stop the tears all morning. He’d bitten his lower lip until it bled while he’d made himself breakfast with shaking hands, and tears running down his cheeks. He’d blinked his burning, wet eyes as he’d scrolled fruitlessly through job applications on his laptop. He’d _tried_...Steve had tried _so hard_ to keep moving, and do something with his useless, directionless life, but the tears just hadn’t stopped. He’d cried himself raw, and empty. He’d cried until he felt like a shell- until all he could do was lay on his couch and stare at some distant point far beyond the off-white ceiling of his living room.

His raw mind told him he was pathetic.

_His soul whispered weakly that he was heart broken…_

Beside the couch, Steve’s phone gave a little chirp, and his hand slid down blindly. His fingertips trailed over the carpet, brushing through crumpled up bits of trash that littered the floor until they came in contact with the smooth screen. He lifted the phone, tearing his burning, glazed eyes away from the ceiling and tapping the message icon. A little green speech bubble blossomed cheerily up on his screen, the upper left corner marked with a J.J.

Sent: 3:46 PM

_“I think I’ve scrapped the bottom of the barrel, Rogers. I’ve sent you everything I could find on your guy.”_

Steve blinked, his lashes gritty with dried tears. Jessica had finished her job...They now knew everything that had ever been documented about James Buchanan Barnes’s life. And all Steve could think was that it was all _pointless._ His hand lifted heavily, fingers hovering over the keypad as dozens of potential responses drifted- thick, and foggy, through his mind. _‘It doesn't matter anymore.’ ‘I don’t care.’ ‘Can you sleuth out a way to go back in time too?’ ‘I haven't answered you back in over a week no matter what you send me, why don’t you take a fucking hint. ‘Take my money and quite already’ ‘Just leave me alone- Fuck off- Leave me the fuck alone!’ ‘...I’m sorry…’ ‘...I’m so sorry.’ ‘Leave me alone…’ ‘I know you’re just trying to do your job...’ ‘...I’m so, so sorry…’_

Sent: 4:08 PM

_“Okay. Thank you.”_

The response came out mechanically- flat- with no emotion behind it, and maybe that’s why he chose it. Anything with emotion would come out too strong. Flat was the best he could do. A few moment’s later, his phone chirped again.

Sent: 4:10 PM

_“That’s it? You’re not going to ask me to bust my ass to find out more about this guy? Cause you seemed pretty fucking desperate the last time we talked.”_

Sent: 4:13

_“No, you’ve done plenty.”_

For a long time, there was nothing, and Steve let his eyes unfocus again, his mind never _once_ drifting beyond the words on the text, to the woman with the heavy, dark hair, and berry purple lips. He didn’t consider her sitting on her own ratty couch in her home and fighting herself over the words, because _why the fuck would she care?_ She’d gotten her paycheck, she wasn’t a fucking psychiatrist… What she _was_ though, was invested in her career, and sometimes that investment bled, unfortunately, to the people she came in contact with. Jessica Jones hated nothing more than catching _any_ form of affection for someone. In her experience it only ended badly- Like Luke and Hope Schlottman...out of her life, and dead, respectively. But there was something about Steve, with the blond hair, the blue eyes, and the passion for justice that just about gave her an ulcer for how much it reminded her of her sister. _Trish was just the same,_ just as stubborn, just as determined….

And something had so obviously gone wrong. Jessica didn’t need to be a PI to see that. And maybe Steve was nothing to her, but he was _something_ to _someone._ And as much as Jessica loathed trying to provide clumsy emotional support, she knew she would never want someone to leave Trish if she were hurting just because _‘she was nothing to them’_

Sent: 4:25 PM

_“Alright Rogers, I’m not an idiot. I know something’s going on between you and that guy, and it doesn't take a PI to figure out that something’s gone wrong. Lucky you, I’m not a shrink, so I’m not gonna make you tell me, but take it from someone who’s be through enough crap for one lifetime, this shit doesn't last forever. It hurts, and it sucks, and anyone who tries to tell you different is a moron, but it doesn't last, alright? So get your shit together, Rogers. I didn’t dig up all that info for you to let it gather dust. “_

For a very long moment, all Steve could do was stare at the message. His first thought, was that he wasn’t texting who he’d thought he’d been texting. His second was that he must be pretty bad if _Jessica Jones_ was softening a bit towards him. The message wasn’t sweet, or cuddly, but there was a note of barbed encouragement in it. It wasn’t like being wrapped in a soft blanket, and coaxed gently back to where he should be...more like being jabbed away from the edge of a cliff with a cattle prod...Steve wasn’t sure how much he appreciated that, but...then again, _she was right_...He needed to get his shit together.

Maybe Bucky’s fate was out of his hands- he’d placed it with Matt and Foggy now, but if Steve self destructed, what did Bucky have to come back to? If nothing else- if it was the _only_ thing he could possibly do, he needed to be ready, _physically,_ and _emotionally._ Bucky needed a home to come to that wasn’t cluttered with three weeks of trash. He needed a body to hold him that didn’t smell like it hadn’t been washed since the previous sunday...He needed a heart, and mind that were healthy enough to begin Bucky on his own path to healing. _That_ was what Steve could do for Bucky...even if it was _only_ that.

So, pulling himself up off the couch for the first time since that morning, Steve made himself shower. He opened up the windows to let out the stale air, and pulled out a garbage bag to collect the trash that had started to pile up. Before, it had seemed pointless, why would a crumpled tissue on the floor matter when the love of his life was gone? But now there was a reason. Because the love of his life _might_ still come back to him, and if he did, he needed to be ready. Steve cleaned, and vacuumed, and swept, and -in the middle of washing the mountain of piled up dishes- his phone rang in a call from Nelson and Murdock.

 _The appeal had been a success,_ and Bucky was one, shaky step closer to freedom.

_Things were beginning to look up._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bucky had thought that the day of his first interview with the Technicians was the most exhausted he’d ever felt, but this... _this was so much worse._

Early that morning, his guard had come in. He’d bound, and tethered him, and dragged him to his feet. He’d been taken back to the little, stale room with the sturdy table, and the Technicians had briefed him one final time on the mission. _The appeal._ The Technician, Murdock, had told him it was a sure thing. Reasonable doubt would be easy to prove in a case like this, because they didn’t have to prove that he was _innocent-_ they just had to prove there was a _chance_ he _wasn’t guilty,_ and he assured him that they had plenty enough evidence for that.

From there, Bucky had been taken out of the prison for the first time in almost five years, but it wasn’t sweet. There was no victory in the lapse in his imprisonment. It was bitter, and frightening, and loud....

He was dragged from the predictable pattern of the prison, and thrust into a blistering hot day with wind that ripped around his body, and thrummed in his sensitive ears. A dozen guards crowded in on all sides, every one of them ready to shoot him if he resisted. He was jostled, and herded, and finally pushed into the back seat of a cruiser and handcuffed to the console for good measure, even with the thick, bulletproof glass separating him from the driver. Bucky felt less like a man being proven innocent, and more like he was only being reconvicted. Every stare that burned into his flesh told him so. They all believed he was guilty. _A monster. Filth._ They all thought it was an injustice to the country that he’d even been left _alive._

And then the cruiser started moving, and the world began to passed around him in a blur. It rushed past in a whirl of confusion, and overstimulation, until all Bucky could do was duck his head between his knees and wish it all over. He thought he was going to be sick. He thought his head was going to split from the pressure. It was all too much.

Being transported out was no less traumatizing than being dragged in, only this time, there was the flash of cameras, and the shoutings of a small group of press. And then there had been the appeal.

It had probably taken less than an hour, but to Bucky, it felt like an _eternity._ The eleven people present felt like a throng, Bucky’s terrified, abused mind seeing a threat in every face he saw. The occasional overlap of voices as opinions were made known roared in Bucky’s ears, and it was everything he could do not to shut down. He just wanted to cry...He just wanted everyone to shut up- to leave him alone, and stop staring at him like he was some kind of insect under a microscope that they couldn’t categorize as poisonous, or not. Most of them seemed to think he was poison...To be fair though...he agreed with them...And all the while he kept looking over the eleven faces in the room and praying that, by some miracle, one of them would be Steve…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The Technician, Nelson, told him they’d won- that his sentence had been remanded. He’d clapped him on the shoulder in a momentary burst of enthusiasm, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he’d given him a little shake. _‘This is progress, buddy- You’re going back to trial!’_ But the touch just felt like a burn. It left him shaky, and sick, his opposite hand clamped over his forearm where he’d touched him, as though he were protecting an injury. A part of his brain told him that this was a good thing, but the Technician’s excitement washed over his head like icy waves...drowning him, tumbling him over and over until he didn’t know which way was up...they told him they’d won, but all Bucky could feel was _raw._ He felt like an exposed nerve- like all the skin had been stripped from his body- every sound, every movement- every dust particle in the air was so much harsher. He felt brittle. He felt hollow... _he missed Steve._

At the second security checkpoint in the prison, he was transferred to his regular guard, and lead back towards the awful, white cell that had held him for so long.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He could see it coming closer. Step by step he was pushed towards the steel mouth of his prison- his cell that trapped him in dry, dehydrating heat, and ringing, white brightness. _God-_ he was so raw, the visible light from the door felt like hell, and a tremor ran up Bucky’s body as the scent of the staleness drifted to him. He couldn’t take it- _god- he couldn’t take it._ _He couldn’t go back in there-_

For a horrible second, Bucky forgot himself, and his front foot skidded against the concrete floor his shoulder’s drawing back as he tried futilely to halt his progress. A second later, his guard’s grip turned to iron on his arms and he jerked him violently, shoving him face first against the wall. His hand snapped up, seizing the mesh hood, and a fistfull of Bucky’s hair in his grip. A cracked, strangled cry of shock broke from Bucky’s throat, as the cruel-eyed man slammed his head forward, the prisoner’s cheekbone cracking against the wall.

An aborted jerk of resistance rippled through Bucky’s muscles but the guard pressed him, full body, against the wall, grinding his face in the the hard surface, his chest flush against his charge’s back. “Watch it- _WATCH IT!”_ He snapped, jamming him more forcefully against the wall, jerking his head like Bucky was some kind of dog. He let out a low, hissing breath against his ear, the air hot, and close, sending a sick prickle down Bucky’s spine. _He hated that. Hated_ that his body was being crushed in on on all side- hated the ache that spread across his entire scalp from the grip in his hair. He hated that he could feel the man’s lips turn from a snarl, to a _smirk._

“Don’t wanna go back into your kennel, Puppy?” He sneered, his tone dripping with poison as his fist tightened through his hair, the mesh bunching as he yanked it through the spit guard. “You get to go out on a walk, and all the sudden you think you should be able to decided when you get put away? That it, _hm?_ Well…” His face turned in closer to Bucky so that his prisoner could see the malicious glint in his gaze- see the smirk that twisted his mouth out of the corner of one wide, terrified eye. “Maybe I could talk to the higher ups...get you moved into the communal branch.” His eyebrows flicked upward, his tongue sliding out to wet his mouth, and Bucky’s skin crawled as the man’s hand suddenly curled into a painful, possessive grip on his ass.

_“Pretty boy like you’ll make lots of friends over there…”_

His stomach plunged.

Bucky hadn’t been touched like that in _years._ Steve had _never-_ The last person to touch him like that had been a handler- pressing in- gripping- sliding hands up his uniform and _taking-_ and _taking-_ and _taking-_ He felt nausea rise in his throat, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat as the man’s fingers flexed, digging deeper through the loose prison jumpsuit and pressing past his soft flesh and into his muscle. The touch conveyed nothing but a lust for power, and a sick thirst for the knowledge that he could do _whatever_ he wanted to the man under his watch- a man he’d perceived to be extraordinarily powerful- now _helpless,_ now totally at his mercy.

His turned his face in closer, chasing the contact as Bucky’s head craned away. The mesh of the spit guard brushed his lips, and he could feel the heat coming off his prisoner’s skin- smell the sweat that had broken out all across his body. “But they’d never approve that.” He said shortly, flicking his tongue across his lips once more, soaking in the feeling of the twitching flinch it tugged from inside his prisoner. “They still think you’re _dangerous_. They still think you’re more than a mute, submissive, little puppy, who needs a firm hand to keep you in line.”

He dragged in a deep breath through his nose, his hips suddenly pressing in firmly against his ass as he groped him, and Bucky felt his insides freeze. As the man began rutting his hips against him, something in the back of his mind tried to spur him into action, breathing Steve’s words back into his mind from the day he’d refused to punish him with sex. _‘I’m not gonna have sex with you- The people that punished you like that were sick, and wrong- and I’m never going to do that to you.’_ Bucky squeezed his eyes closed. _Sick, and wrong._ This was sick, and wrong- so why couldn’t he make himself move? His body had locked up, his conditioning strangling out thoughts of freewill- strangling out thought of the loose grasp he had on consent. The way Steve had spoken made it sound like he should have some say in this-

But he was a _handler-_

Protocol demanded he submit himself to his handler no matter the request. His conditioning screamed in his head that his handler’s intentions were clear, and he should be down on his knees already- open mouthed, and obedient, but Bucky stayed as rigid as ever. He couldn’t fight, and he couldn't comply, neither part of his mind able to override the other- he was going to malfunction- he was going to _break._

His handler’s lips touched Bucky’s cheek through the mesh guard, dragging slowly to the corner of his mouth, his breath hot, and slick over his skin. “You don’t wanna go back into your kennel all by yourself do you, sweetheart?” He cooed panderingly, rolling his hips against him, as his hand slid around groping the top of his thigh, his other still anchored in his hair. “You want someone to keep you company?"

"You’d be a sweet little bitch for me, wouldn’t you?”

_Every muscle in Bucky’s body went taut._

Suddenly, his conditioning _snapped._ His mind turned dark, and brutal, and every fiber of his being coiled for a strike. Suddenly, his mind was flashing through the motions that would end the man to his back.

_Shock with head snap to the left. Result: Split lip. Target will recoil two steps back. Turn and headbutt. Result: Shattered nose, black eyes. Target will lose footing and fall. Accurate aim will drop the Asset’s entire weight onto the target’s throat with the kneecap. Sustain pressure on the target’s throat for 2-7 minutes, crushing windpipe and depriving brain of oxygen._

_Result: Death._

He could see it _so vividly_ in his mind. He could _feel_ the vertebrae snapping when his knee came cracking down on his throat. He could _hear_ the aborted gasp, and _see_ his eyes go dim. He could see

_...Steve…_

He could see Steve waiting for him on the outside, and never being able to get back to him, because he’d just proven right everyone who’d ever hated him. He could see the inside of his cell- _only_ the inside... _forever_...He could see a lethal injection slipping into his vein, or straps tightening around his wrists to hold him in the electric chair…

His muscles went slack, his eyes blurring as the man’s growled words continued to wash over his ears. _He couldn’t. He couldn’t kill him._..not for any consideration of the man that hurt, and terrorized him- who put his hands on him purely because he could...but for _Steve_...because he wanted to see him again...he wanted to be with him...and that meant his guard had to live.

Bucky stood there- numb, and slack, for a moment longer, his eyes dimming with resignation, before something suddenly sparked inside him. His eyes cleared, his head straightening even under the damp, invasive brush of the man’s lips.

_“You’re outside of regulation.”_

The words were so soft, and so low, the guard almost missed them. He stopped, blinking, and drawing back just a hair as he stared at his prisoner. He’d _spoken._ Those mute lips had formed words- an _accusation_ even, and disbelief coiled hot in the pit of his stomach.

 _“Come again?”_ He spat, a little barking laugh escaping him as he squeezed harder on the inside of Bucky’s thigh, digging bruises into his flesh.

Bucky didn’t blink, his eyes fixed as he drew in a shallow breath. “You’re outside of regulation.” He insisted again, his eyes brightening, though his face remained impassive. “A security camera has been place in my cell due to a past incident with a handler. They are monitoring the footage closely, and they will have expected to see me back in my cell by now. Someone will be sent to ensure the situation is still under control. They will find that you’re outside of regulation in your contact with me, and in failing to return me to my cell on schedule.”

The guard stopped, head spinning with metal whiplash. He so wanted to laugh. He so wanted to crack the prisoner’s head open against the wall and make him regret so much as _speaking_ to him, but- he was _right. Irrefutably_ so. Any second now, two other guards would be entering the premises, hands on their weapons in case the prisoner had gotten the jump on him. It had been long minutes since their scheduled return time had passed, and he suddenly jerked back as though he’d been burned.

His expression twisted, contorting with rage, and he abruptly reached forward, dragging Bucky away from the wall and _shoving_ him towards the gaping door to his cell. Bucky staggered under the shove, the tether’s making his steps clumsy, and restricted, and he stumbled to get his feet under him. A second of reprieve was all he got before he was forced forward again. His guard shoved him forward his shoulder glancing off the door hard enough to bruise muscle, and Bucky toppled forward, landing face first with no hands to break his fall.

Instantly, he was on him. His heavy, muscular thighs straddled his back, iron grip closing over his forearms, and Bucky felt his stomach drop out from under him in blind, terror. _No- No- no!_ He’d thought there was a camera in the cell- _He’d thought he couldn’t- God- no-_

It took him a raw, terrified moment to realized he was vehemently yanking the tethers free.

“Smart little bitch aren’t you? Think you’re real fucking clever...” He spat, Bucky actually feeling saliva fleck the back of his neck as he undid the elbow tethers. A low, nasty laugh that betrayed nothing but rueful hatred escaped his lips, and he yanked off the ankle tethers, brush burning the skin around his ankles. “I swear to god if there were any slack in this goddamn system I’d strangle you with it.” He gave his head another sharp yank, before ripping off the spit guard, and shoving his head back down. “Watch the life go out of those pretty boy eyes, huh?”

_If only he knew how close he’d come to that exact fate, he might have chosen his words a little more carefully._

His guard let out a hiss under his breath, standing up over Bucky’s prone figure, and bending to unlock the cuffs, wrenching his hands up to lace over the back of his head, per protocol. Leaning close to him one more time, his guard let his lips brush over the hot shell of Bucky’s ear, his mouth twisted back into a snarl. “Budge one inch before this door is sealed and I’ll break your fucking neck.”

With that, he rose, and Bucky lay still, even knowing it was no accident when the heavy tip of his boot cracked into his ribs as he stepped over. He waited -still- listening as the footsteps moved beyond the door, and the door was dragged closed, and finally sealed.

As soon as the heavy, shuddering click met his ears, Bucky let out a raw sound, pushing himself up on shaky elbows. He felt sick. He felt burned from all the touch- from the escort guards herding him to and from vehicles, and in an out of rooms. From Nelson’s grip on his arms- paired with bright, good natured eyes or not… From the creeping, invasive touch of his violent handler… He _hated_ it. _He hated it._ His handler touched him like he was his property, like he _deserved_ to take whatever he wanted just for the thrill of it, and a part of Bucky had tried to convince him he should let him. He’d almost slipped back into utter compliance...but he _hadn’t._ The thought sunk in, slow, and conflicted. He’d refused to submit to a handler.. _.because of Steve?...._

 _Yes._ Because Steve had told him it wasn’t right...he’d told him it shouldn’t be used as punishment, and that...for some reason, Bucky had a say in what his body was used for, and by _who_ ….But there was more too. Steve wasn’t the _only_ reason he’d resisted.

It was _him_ too.

Somewhere along the line, in some, small way, Bucky had decided that he never wanted anyone’s hands but Steve’s on him _ever_ again. If it were Steve, he’d give him anything he wanted, and more. He’d give him _everything,_ and all Steve had to do was touch him softly, and offer him a few gentle words in return, and Bucky would be content...

Bucky’s grasp of consent was _so very_ loose...he still couldn’t comprehend that Steve didn’t _deserve_ anything from him. He still couldn’t guide his mind away from the notion of submitting to Steve, and of being useful to him so he wouldn’t be abandoned. He couldn’t stop thinking that, because of his kindness, Steve was entitled to take whatever he wanted from him, but he’d made that one decision; that one, shaky step towards understanding.

No one else touched him. _Ever._ Not the guard, not the technicians- no doctor, judge, or warden.

_No one touched him but Steve._

Bucky pushed himself the rest of the way up onto his elbows, his deeply bruised shoulder aching in protest. From there, Bucky shifted his knees carefully underneath him and hauled up to his feet. The decision had etched a kind of resolve inside him, something for his broken, exhausted soul to hang on to; it kept him moving when his battered body just wanted to sleep. He was so hungry for touch...so desperate for affection, but there wasn’t a single other soul on the planet that he would allow to give it to him. So he _had_ to make it back to Steve. It was as simple as that. He _needed_ him, so he’d find a way back, even if it meant going through something a hundred times more traumatizing than the appeal.

At the appeal, there had been eleven people total. There had been minimal media coverage, and only a very few points had been laid out; just enough to establish reasonable doubt. The retrial would be _hell._ It would be _swarming_ with the press, people would be _screaming,_ lights would be going off like flash grenades. The court room would be huge, and packed with people and his lawyers would be the only two in the room who didn’t wish him dead...They would comb over every scrap of evidence, and word of testimony Bucky had given them...they would play the horrible video files that Steve had recovered, and Bucky would have to relive every _second_ of torture, and pain…. _They would make him speak._..they would make him tell about the killing...about the memory wipe, espionage, and every other way Hydra had ever used him...He’d have to relive every time he’d spilled an innocent person's blood, and stared at it on his own hands wondering _why he’d done that,_ why his body obeyed someone else rather than the weak, broken voice in the back of his head _begging_ him to make it stop. He’d have to remember every time an agent of Hydra beat, tortured, or took advantage of his coerced obedience.

With the appeal out of the way the retrial was breathing it’s hot, malicious breath across his skin- waiting to hurt him, waiting to rip him to shreds with the hands of everyone he’d ever been forced to hurt. They would call him a traitor- a murderer. They’d call him a _monster..._ They’d make him relive the better part of a century of abuse, and psychological torture...Bucky didn’t know how he could _possibly_ handle something like that. But he _had to._ He _had to,_ for the simple reason that if he didn’t, he’d never be with Steve.

_And that was worse than any trial he could possible face._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder, if anyone is interested on something else to read between updates, [How They Make You A Weapon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5666218/chapters/13051999) updates every monday. So if you're interested in skinny Steve, and the Winter Soldier vs. Hydra I'd love for you to check it out.  
> As always, comments, and thoughts are always so hugely appreciated. I can't tell you enough how much they mean to me.


	15. Retrial

Bucky’s guard grew worse by the day, and the days just kept coming.

The three weeks without Steve stretched to four, to eight, to twelve, and every day Bucky felt himself slip a little bit more. Some days were better than others. Somedays, he didn’t have to leave his cell, and he could lay on his cot, and close his eyes, blocking out the occasional sound of his guard’s voice from the outside. He would spit insults, and threats, and crack his nightstick against the door when Bucky wasn’t expecting it just to hear him start. But it was still all on the outside. It was outside. It couldn't hurt him.

Other days weren’t so good. Bucky had started refusing yard time -it only gave his guard further excuse to terrorize him anyways- but some days he had no choice in leaving his cell. The Technicians- no...the _Attorneys_ ; the Lawyers, Nelson and Murdock, came to see him frequently. On those days he would be forced into the same space as his guard, and every time, without fail, he’d found an excuse to hurt him, even if he had to create one himself. He’d been beaten, and tased, and pepper sprayed. There was a new, bubbling scar on the back of his neck where the spray had been deployed point blank. He had a similar scar on the underside of his right wrist, where a previous guard had caught him for reaching a little too far through the slot for his food tray. These days, a punishment like that could happen unprovoked…

_He wished the Lawyers would stop coming…_

It hurt to think that because, despite the awful first time, they were the only people in his life now who addressed him with any compassion. They spoke to him like he was a _person,_ not a machine, and not an animal like his handler. He’d grown to like the softness of Murdock’s voice, and the way Nelson’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, but he still wished they’d stop coming. If they never came back, he’d never have to leave his cell...his guard could never hurt him.

But they had to prepare for the retrial. They’d been preparing for almost four months now and even though Bucky was growing weary, and sick in his soul, he knew it would be nothing compared to the actual trial. _The trial would level him,_ but he had to face it all the same.

The only brightness in Bucky’s dark, tormented soul, was the few minutes every session with the lawyers when Murdock would tell him about Steve. He relayed conversations they’d had over the phone. He would tell him that Steve missed him. He would relay messages of encouragement, and soft promises that they’d see each other again. It wasn’t nearly enough to sooth Bucky’s mangled, scalded soul, but it was something. It was a few of Steve’s own words. It was a relayed promise; a murmured ‘ _I miss you._ ’ And it was just enough to keep him alive. It was just enough to cement the fact that the trial was coming soon, and it _would_ destroy him, but that Steve would pick up the pieces when it was all over, and care for them just the same.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The horrors Bucky had imagined couldn’t even _compare_ to the reality.

The first day, Bucky was transported to the courthouse, and felt his stomach turn nauseous with terror at the sight of the writhing throng outside of the building. The minute the car pulled up cameras started flashing as violent and chaotic as lightning, and Bucky was pulled, shaking, and protesting, into the very heart of it.

He was crushed in on all sides- people were _screaming,_ reporters shouting questions, protesters spitting curses. Recording devices were shoved towards his face, Bucky flinching away until he was pressed into the side of one of his six escorts, ducking his head away as his body quaked like a leaf. _He was going to throw up_. He was going to _break._ Bucky’s ears were ringing- he- he felt like they were _bleeding,_ and his vision blurred into smears of flickering, shifting color- _skin tones, dress shirts- hairs colors;_ blending and smudging into a deafening cacophony of light, and visual input, and _noise-_ and _noise-_ and _noise._

The minute the door shuddered closed behind them, Bucky got only a brief moment of relief before Nelson and Murdock were at his sides guiding him into the cavernous courtroom.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was _packed,_ and every single face stared at him, like they were dying to see him slaughtered on the stand.

These people would watch him bleed, and die, and they’d _laugh_ . He realized dimly that _these people had good reason._ There would be countless testimonies, and the Winter Soldier never left a target alive...which left their _families._ The people here today wanted him _dead,_ because he’d killed their husbands, their wives, their children...he’d killed siblings, and relative, and friends...These were the people who never wanted him to set foot in the daylight again, and it was on Nelson and Murdock, and Bucky’s own shredded memory to keep that from happening.

He felt himself slipping. He felt his conditioning strangling back the frightened man inside him and locking him away. He felt his pulse begin to steady, and his eyes to turn flat, and emotionless, when suddenly, Murdock's head snapped towards him.

 _‘Hey! James, stay with me, don’t shut down on me, we need you.’_ His voice had been so level- so certain, like he’d never been more positive of anything in his life. Bucky realized he must have heard the change in his heart rate. And when his expression didn’t crack, Murdock had moved around to face him, leaning in close enough that Bucky could feel the warmth of his breath, and smell the subtle, woody scent of his cologne. ‘ _James, I know you’re scared. I know you’re just trying to protect yourself, but if you shut down on me now, those people in the jury will never see what Foggy, and I do- what Steve does. They’ll see you as everything they’ve ever been told about you. You’re scared. You’re confused, and hurt, and they need to know that. They need to know what these people have done to you. Don’t shut down. Stay with me, and help me win.’_

It was almost too steep a request for Bucky to manage.

How could he leave his heart open to the stares of everyone in that courtroom? How could he expose himself to more hurt? But he didn’t have time to struggle with the conflict a second longer, as Murdock herded him over to the defendant’s seat, and the gavel struck with a crack so loud it made Bucky flinch with fear.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Preparing for the process had taken months, but the process itself seemed to take _years._

Bucky was dragged back to the courtroom _again,_ and _again, day_ after _day_ as the proceedings dragged on. All day he listened to the accusations of the loved ones of his victims, and relived the horrors of seeing their glassy, dead eyes staring back at him. All day he listened to Matt defending him- explaining to the court what had happened to him, who he was, and every way in which his autonomy had been stripped from him.

On the seventh day of proceedings, Matt took the jury into every detail of the picture they’d woven together of Bucky’s captivity with Hydra. Every, _excruciating_ detail was laid bare- every _wipe-_ every _beating-_ every _rape._ Every time he’d been tortured. _Every time he’d been thrown in a cell, and left to starve._

They made _him_ testify as well….

Bucky was forced to the stand, and made to describe what little memory he had of his early time there- _the terror- the darkness, and starvation-_ the smell of his amputated arm growing infected, and putrid...He was made to describe the memory wipe in detail; how he’d struggled against it- _screaming,_ and _begging,_ and how after...there was just _nothing._

Murdock told him he was doing well, but after the stand, Bucky was too shaken to even speak. He didn’t even notice that his cheeks were wet, even in the middle of the crowded courtroom. He didn’t even notice that he was doubled forward, and trembling. He didn’t even become aware when Murdock begged a short recess.

_He brought him water that he threw up._

_He rested a hand on his back that only made the trembling worse._

_Was it wrong that he wanted to die?_ After all this, wouldn’t it be better? More peaceful? Somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a distant memory of his mother warning him of the fiery hell that waited for sinners. He supposed that was him now...but _this_ was hell, which meant dying couldn’t be any worse. Even _hell_ would be a blessing compared to this.

The fifteen minutes the judge had granted them wasn’t enough, but the trial continued around him anyways.

He should be paying attention. The _course_ of his _life_ was being decided. But Bucky just sat with his head bowed, and _shook,_ and cried silently, his overlong hair hiding his shattered tears from the eyes of all in attendance.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

“I- _can’t-_ ”

The two words cracked from Bucky’s raw throat in a broken, desperate whisper. He lifted his head, his eyes fixing on the blind lawyer’s face as he stood over where Bucky sat on the hardwood bench. “Murdock...I _can’t_ go back out there- _please-”_ He begged, like he’d already been condemned, and Murdock had uttered the death sentence.

The day before had been too much for him. _He was gonna break._ He was gonna shatter into so many slivers that there would be nothing left for Steve to even _see._

He hadn’t been able to eat since the third day- he was _starving,_ but his stomach was too tense, throwing up everything he tried to put on it. He hadn’t slept. He’d sobbed, and shaken until his muscles were numb and his voice had dropped off to a croak, and he _couldn’t-_ He _couldn’t_ go back out there. _God...please don’t make him go back…_

Murdock’s lips tightened slightly, Bucky’s stomach surging with nausea. _No-_

“James…”

_Please no-_

“You have to. _I’m sorry,_ it’ll all be over soon.” His head tipped slightly, catching the sound of Nelson moving closer with a cup of coffee in hand. The smell seemed to remind him of something, and he straightened slightly. “Do you want a little coffee? We don’t have a lot of time before we reconvene, but we can get you something- or Foggy could just surrender his- whatever's convenient.”

The gentle attempt at humor turned Bucky’s stomach into a knot, his eyes flashing to Nelson- huge, and bordering panicked, as his head jerked in a tiny, fearful shake.

Nelson blinked at the reaction, seeing the raw fear that had bloomed across his client’s face, and he hurriedly set the coffee aside, moving to sink onto the bench next to him. “Hey,” He murmured lowly, “It’s alright, Matt’s just being an _ass-”_ The last word was emphasized sharply, as Foggy turned a glare on his partner, and Matt -seeming to sense the change in energy- smirked faintly. Foggy’s eyes turned back to Bucky, and he quirked an eyebrow up with a faint smile, shrugging his shoulders loosely. “He knows I’d never give up my coffee, but I’d get you one if you want.”

The offer was casual, and genuine, and Bucky let out a slow breath as his fear ebbed. It was always hiding in the background of his mind, waiting to jump out at the tiniest thing- even something he shouldn’t rightfully be afraid of. But regardless, Bucky gave his head another tiny shake, his eyes downcast, and he saw Foggy’s mouth twitch sympathetically out of the corner of his eye.

“Alright…” He said in an undertone, standing to his feet as he took up the cup of coffee once more. “How about we get this done, huh? I’ll be singing in the streets when this trial’s behind us.”

As Bucky rose haltingly to his feet, Matt reached out, his knuckles just brushing Bucky’s elbow. “James?” He said softly, Bucky looking over at him with a sharp twist of nervous dread. But Murdock’s mouth was softened by a smile, and he tipped his chin towards the door. “Come on, _You can do this.._.and there’s a surprise for you in the courtroom.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_Steve could barely breath._

The tie he'd chosen felt too tight around his throat, the other attendants too close to his left and right. He felt suffocated, and tense, his body quivering with anticipation. Bucky could be _anywhere._

Matt had only _just_ been able to get Steve into the courtroom on the eighth day- the _last_ day. He wouldn't be allowed to speak to Bucky, he wouldn't be allowed any privacy with him, but there was a chance he could _see_ Bucky. More importantly though, there was a chance Bucky could see _him_.

_He just had to know he was here._

He just had to know that he was here for him, not matter what happened. _One way or another Steve would find a way to be there for him._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bucky followed in Murdock’s shadow, step by step, hovering close, because it was the closest thing to protection he could feel. Logic told him that he was highly trained- his body a finely honed weapon- and that Murdock was not a soldier- and _blind_ at that. But somehow, being close to him felt _safer._ He felt -if only a tiny bit- a little more protected from the eyes of the audience, and the jury, and those who’d testified against him. He felt a little safer from the steely eyed judge’s verdict.

Murdock walked with confidence, the floor layout familiar to him, and the sounds of moving bodies easy enough to interpret. His chin was lifted, his shoulders loose with confidence, and Bucky got the odd impression that he received from him so often that he was _listening._ His head twitched just a few degrees to the left, or to the right, and every so often his footfalls would slow. There was something specific he was waiting to hear.

Suddenly, his expression shifted.

Across the room, a heart beat had stuttered, and was suddenly accelerating.

A knowing smile tugged at the corners of Matt’s lips, and he paused, one hand easing back to touch Bucky’s arm, stilling him in his tracks. “James,” He murmured in a low tone. “Take a seat, and then look behind, to your right.”

Bucky’s immediate impulse was to whip around, but he froze the muscle in his neck, holding himself rigid. _Sit, then look._ Those where the orders. Slowly, Bucky eased forward, reached out to slide back the heavy defendant’s chair. His knees were shaking when he took his seat. The courtroom was already full- already buzzing with voices, and overlapping chatter- already hot with the heat of a hundred bodies in close proximity. His gaze turned slowly, his eyes sliding over the threatening blur of impersonal faces; _skin tones, dress shirts- hairs colors, eye colors._

_Blond._

_Blue._

Bucky froze.

As Steve’s eyes met his from across the courtroom, his entire face softened into an aching smile, and Bucky felt his blood turn warm, as disbelief washed through his mind. _It was a delusion_ \- the trauma of the trial had fractured his mind, and he was seeing things. But he was _right there_ \- Steve was _there_ on the other side of the huge room, crammed in the middle of a long crowded row, and _smiling._ He could see his smile widening, see his eyes crinkling at the corners as moisture gleamed in his eyes. He leaned forward, as though the shuffling, half-step he could manage would bring him to Bucky’s side. His gorgeous, soft pink lips formed his name, and suddenly, the disbelief that had frozen Bucky’s mind melted like frost in the sun.

_“Steve-”_

Bucky was on his feet before his mind had even processed the action, the muscles in his thighs coiled to hurdle the solid, oak railing that separated the front of the court from the back. His body lurched forward, and suddenly there were hands on his arms, dragging the movement to an aborted halt. Nelson had jerked into action with a sharp _‘whoa_!’ grabbing his upper arms from behind as Bucky jerked to a sharp stop.

“James-” It was Murdock speaking, and the dark haired lawyer moved in front of him, even as Bucky stared right over his shoulder. “ _Easy_...you can’t speak to Steve right now, but I wanted you to know that he was here. James- look at me.”

Bucky wasn’t certain how Murdock could tell he _wasn’t,_ but he’d begun to accept that his disability wasn’t as straightforward as it seemed. His eyes wrenched away from Steve for just a second, flickering impatiently to Murdock’s face, desperation carved into every line of his expression.

“James, _Steve’s here for you_...He’s here to _support_ you. Now this is the last day. If all goes well, you’ll be free to be with him-”

“If it doesn’t, _I’ll never see him again_ -” Bucky blurted sharply, his conditioning to be respectful towards his handlers shattered at the sight of Steve. He pressed forward, almost chest to chest with Murdock, his eyes fixed on Steve.

Murdock’s hands came up, stopping just shy of his heaving chest. “ _I’m not gonna let that happen-_ Look at me- We _need_ to get through this. I _know_ you’re tired, I _know_ this process has been traumatizing for you, and I thought knowing Steve was here would be a comfort. I thought it would help you get through this last day.”  Matt’s tongue slid out, wetting his lips slowly, as he tuned in to the still rapid pounding of Steve’s heart. “If it’s too much-”

Bucky’s eyes snapped back to Matt abruptly, something like panic flashing deep inside him. _“No-”_ He pleaded, his voice suddenly dropping away to a desperate breath. “No- _don’t make him leave_ \- I- I’ll stay. _I'll be good,_ I- I’ll focus.”

“It’s not a threat, James…” Murdock said softly, his hands easing down to his sides. “But you _do_ have to take this seriously- This is your whole future we’re trying to change...I can’t have that jeopardized, _even for Steve._ Trust me, James... _He understand_ s…All he wants is to be here for you.”

Slowly, Bucky eased back just a step, his shoulders going loose. In a sense- he was _crushed._ But...wasn’t _seeing_ Steve -even if he wasn’t able to _touch_ him- better than facing this alone? Wasn’t it better to know he was here, even if it meant his palms, and fingers burned, and itched to stroke his gorgeous, strong jaw... Bucky swallowed, his eyes flickering to Murdock. “I- I won’t do anything...I’m just going to the railing, I promise I won’t do anything.”

At that, his lawyer’s expression softened, and he eased back, gesturing loosely for Bucky to pass. He walked haltingly to the railing, his eyes finding Steve’s once more, and slowly, Bucky forced his dry, chapped lips into a tiny, shaky smile.

Steve saw the little smile, and felt his heart flush with heat. He wet his lips with a tiny little dart of his tongue, swallowing hard as a knot formed in his throat. _God-_ it had been _four months...four months_ since he’d last laid eyes on him- since he’d last gently kissed him goodbye in his cell and close the door, always intending to come back, but snatched away against his will. It had been four months, and Bucky had grown gaunt, and pale. His eyes were sunken, and shadowed, and he looked strung out- _exhausted,_ like he’d been stretched, _thinner,_ and _thinner_ until he’d _snapped._ He looked weary...He looked _broken_...but at the sight of Steve, his mouth had turned into a tiny smile, and Steve felt his eyes burn with unshed tears.

 _‘Hey Bucky…’_ The words were mouthed across the room, his lips silently forming the shapes, and his hand gave a tiny, desperate twitch at his side. He wanted nothing more than to shove every single soul that stood between him and Bucky out of his way- vault over the barrier, and wrap him in his arms. He wanted to breath in his scent, and feel the warmth of his body, and the pattern of his breath. He wanted the kiss him... _god_ , he wanted to kiss him and hear Bucky’s desperate, touch-starved sighs as he leaned into the affection. He wanted to make up for every day- every _moment_ they’d lost, and he wanted Bucky to know that he was _loved._

He was _so_ loved- so deeply, _deeply_ loved, and Steve couldn’t even say it. But he could hold him, and kiss him, and stroke his hair. He could lay close to him on his bed and whisper how beautiful he was. He was so very loved… It had been four months since anyone had shown him that, and after the life he’d lived, four months was too fucking long.

Bucky’s hand lifted softly, jerking in a tiny, uncertain waive, his shattered eyes growing shy under the warmth of Steve’s smile. His head lowered, and suddenly all the defensiveness- all the programing, and rigid protocol was gone, and he was just _Bucky._ Just a shy, gentle man who’d been tortured and abused at every turn, and yet somewhere inside him - _almost impossibly_ \- remained soft. His eyes flickered back up, his mouth softly forming the whispered words in return. _‘Hey Steve…’_

Almost the second the shapes of the words had fallen from his lips, the judge’s gavel struck sharply, and Bucky jolted, whipping back around. _It was starting_. He tossed a sharp, panicked glance over his shoulder at Steve before Nelson guided him hurriedly back to the defendant’s chair, and Steve’s image was lost from his sight.

But he was _here._ The last day of the trial was starting, and Steve was _here_...no matter what.

Bucky’s eyes slid forward, his stomach twisted into a knot in his gut. _He could do this._ He _had_ to. _He had no other choice._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The last day of the trail felt like a beheading in slow motion. _Terrifying, inevitable,_ and _all but over._

It was the end of Bucky’s life. Either the end of his life in captivity... _or just the end_ , and nothing could stop the descent of the axe.

It would cut him free, or kill him, and there was no in between.

His only lifeline through it was _Steve._ Every so often, if he looked at just the right time, when a woman in pink was leaning forward at the same time that a bald man in gray leaned back, he could see him from where he sat. He could see him watching the unfoldings, or staring urgently in his direction. Sometimes, they had just long enough in each other's lines of vision for Steve’s to offer him a tiny, tight smile. _He looked scared too_. He could smell the metallic, biting scent of the ax descending towards him. He too was waiting to see where the blow would fall.

It was three in the afternoon when the Judge asked Murdock for any closing statements.

All day they had combed over remaining evidence, and discussed other recorded instances in detail. Matt had showed the court the videos...the awful, _sickening_ videos that Steve had spoken of… The sound of his own, tortured screams made Bucky’s stomach twist with nausea, and he bowed his head, shuddering as the version of himself, who had no idea what was coming for him, scream for his brothers in arms as he was strapped down. They had been through videos from the cryo procedures, and videos from disciplinary procedures. Matt had shown the Jury what had happened to Bucky if he failed a mission, stepped out of line, or showed even a _trace_ of humanity. He showed them what happened even when he’d done nothing wrong- showed how the agents of Hydra tormented him, even unprovoked. And once the large, flat screen had gone black, Matt stood slowly from his position by Bucky’s side.

Bucky could hear his own pulse in his ears. He could smell the sweat trapped close to his body under his prison uniform. He could feel the pain as his stomach twisted into a knot of pure terror. Matt paced confidently up to the middle of the floor, his posture exuding certainty, but his shoulders were relaxed, his expression, serious.

“ _Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…”_ He started, his face turned towards the diverse selection of men and women than would decide the course of Bucky’s life. “I admonish you to reflect on the video footage I showed you. That young man- confused, frightened, and fighting for his life- _that_ is James Buchanan Barnes. He was intelligent, he was brave, and he was trying to defend his country. He did _everything_ right...but sometimes, that isn’t enough.” Matt’s voice softened slightly, his tone growing personal, as he stepped in to rest his hands on the railing separating him from the jury.

“My client fought his captors with everything in him. Even sick, and injured, and malnourished- even after being experimented on, tortured, and violated. This footage has shown that time, and time again, even _years_ after having everything that made him who he was stripped from his mind, James Barnes _still_ broke through and tried to do what he remembered to be right... _and they punished him brutally for it.”_

Bucky could see the jury’s rapt attention, see every eye fixed on the eyes that couldn’t see them in return. They fixed on the man that gave them words that turned their hearts sick with grief. Matt walked slowly along the railing, speaking as though his words were meant for each one of them personally, and not for a faceless whole. “Ladies and gentlemen…” He said softly, his fingertips so light on the railing, his voice so heavy, and intimate. “James Buchanan Barnes has faced horrors beyond even what we have uncovered today, and he’s faced them for the better part of a century. His life was stolen from him, his family, and friends, left behind in a time he can never return to. He was made to be a _weapon,_ and a _killer_ against his will, and he was _tortured, raped,_ and _used_ without his consent... And when he broke free of the captivity of Hydra, he was confined immediately, and without consideration of his mental state, to the captivity of the United States of America. Ladies and gentlemen…when I look at my client- _when I look at James_ \- I don’t see a violent man, nor a man who deserves to spend the rest of his life in a tiny, isolated cell. I see a man who deserves a chance to rediscover the person Hydra destroy, who deserves a chance to rebuild a life. I see a man who needs _support, care,_ and _attention_ to the trauma he’s experienced...I see a man who deserves- _after a lifetime of horrors-_ to be _free…_ Please consider this as you come to your decision...thank you.”

As Matt made his way back to Bucky’s side, Bucky felt his entire body go weak.

That was it. That was _all_ they could do...Now, a group of strangers would decide whether he went free.. _.to Steve_...or back to the hellhole he’d been confined to for almost five years...back to the guard who took every opportunity he could to abuse him...back to the hot, white cell with the keening bright light that would torment him for the rest of his life. _..It was over._..there was nothing more they could do.

The judge was speaking, but the words washed over Bucky without leaving an impression. The didn’t soak through to his mind, just rolled over like water over rocks. Foggy was touching his elbow, coaxing him to his feet. Matt was close on his other side, a hand in the middle of his back guiding him away as everyone else in attendance began to move as though as one entity. _What was happening?_ Dimly, Bucky’s head turned back over his shoulder, his ears clogged, and ringing as his eyes scanned numbly for Steve- _he was back there somewhere_ \- he was lost in the throng of moving people. The jury was filing, one by one, into a room on the other side of the cavernous court.

Everything felt thick, and slow, and fluid, Bucky’s heart slamming in his ears as he was lead through a narrow doorway, into the small room they’d waited in before.

The _click_ of the door sounded as loud as a gunshot, and Bucky’s body abruptly jerked, his eyes snapping into sharp focus.   

 _“What’s happening?”_ The words escaped him, rough, and desperate, as he turned suddenly away from Murdock’s guiding hand and back to the door. He rested his fingertips against it, his palm pressing flat as he stared- wishing his gaze could pass right through it. “What’s going on- what’s happening?”

Matt eased close again, laying his hand along Bucky’s forearm, slowly sliding his hand down as he coaxed him softly away from the door. “The jury is making their decision….not much longer now, James...”

“ _Can I see Steve?”_ The request sounded small, and shaky even to his ears, his shoulders suddenly slack, his gaze still fixed on the door.

“He wouldn’t be allowed in right now...But we’ve got this, James. Those jurors _heard_ what happened to you, they have to vote to absolve you.”

Suddenly, Bucky felt blind, raw fear crawl up his throat, his body coiling with tension as he whipped around to face him. “You don’t _know_ that!” He snapped fearfully, his eyes wide, strands of his hair escaping to hang in his face. “They heard what happened to _me,_ but they heard all of those testimonies too! They heard about the organizations I destroyed- the people I've _killed-_  They’re not gonna forget that, Murdock! They-”

“No-” Matt cut in sharply, his brow knotting, his shoulder’s drawing back purposefully. “No, they're _not-_ they’re gonna consider it, and weigh it against all the other evidence, but James- _I_ know you’re innocent. _Foggy_ knows it, _Steve_ knows it. We’re smart people- _Steve_ is a smart person....We figured it out even without the benefit of having all the facts laid out for us... _They will too...trust me_...Just breath…”

Slowly, the tension slid from Bucky’s body, and he sunk back on the bench numbly. He vaguely realized that he’d sat in this same place just this morning, also lost, and overwhelmed. He’d been brought here to escape the crowd, and the voices and the accusations for _eight days,_ and this was the last time...the jury was deciding, and Bucky felt exhaustion burning through every vein in his body. He nodded numbly. It was pointless to fight. Again, his power of choice was gone. _Hydra-_ _the prison- the court-_ it was as though the world were conspiring to never let Bucky decide what happened with his own body- _his own life_ \- ever again.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was _seven hours_ before Bucky was brought back into the courtroom.

His blood was pounding through his ears, and Bucky could smell his own fear seeping from his every pore. He could feel the helplessness dragging at his limbs. The _hopelessness..._ the _despair_. Matt seemed confident, but Bucky’s life had been ugly at every turn, _why would this be any different?_

As the judge began to speak, Bucky’s eyes drifted helplessly to Steve, craning to catch one last glimpse of him. If they found him guilty, he’d never see him again...their last, and _only_ chance would be gone. But he couldn’t see so much as a sliver of his former guard through the dense crush of attendees. His eyes burned, straining, his neck shifting to try and catch sight when Murdock brushed his arm softly, and Bucky’s stomach dropped like a bucket of lead.

The judge’s eyes had turned to him, the jury’s envelope open in her hands.

“In the case of James Buchanan Barnes vs. the United State...Mr. Barnes, this court find you-

_-not guilty-_

Bucky felt his stomach drop, a tingling numbness passing through his entire body as the judge's words looped, and tangled, and spilled over each other in his mind. Vaguely he felt Murdock gripping his arm- saw Nelson’s hands clenching into slightly raised fists under the table. Distantly he heard her continuing. _‘Mr. Barnes, the United States of America has failed you for almost eighty years, and given the evidence presented here, and this inexcusable travesty of justice, I am moving to pursue the code of criminal procedure article 440.10. and hereby vacate the judgement against you. Congratulation Mr. Barnes-”_

He tuned everything else out.

Bucky lurched to his feet, Matt and Foggy already standing. His started in alarm as Foggy grasped his hand, but the moment of fear passed as his eyes scoured the court for Steve-

_Steve-_

God- _He was going to be with Steve!_ He was gonna see him again- he- he was _free!_

Abandoning stillness, Bucky freed his hand from Nelson’s, partially ignoring the people that hurried him along, guiding him the way they wanted him to go as he craned to see over the heads of the crowd. _“STEVE!’_ He yelled, wide eyes snapping over every face. “Steve! _STEVE!”_

From the opposite side of the room, a shout of response meant his ears, a hand shooting up above the heads of the crowd.

_“BUCKY!”_

His heart lurched into his throat, Bucky's mouth suddenly splitting into a grin as he caught just a flash of bright blue eyes, and Steve's gorgeous, _delirious_ smile. Hands grabbed his right arm, someone speaking off to his side as he was guided towards the doors but Bucky was too gone to even register. He wasn't even sure who he was surrounded by, he'd lost track of Nelson, though Murdock was somewhere to his left.

All that mattered was Steve.

He could see him more fully now, ducking, and pushing to get over to him, his cheeks flushed, mouth grinning. His eyes were bright with tears, and Bucky suddenly felt a rush of desperate affection so deep and so earnest he thought it's break his heart.

Steve was _here-_  Bucky was _free,_ and Steve was here, it was just a matter of getting to him.

Abruptly the doorway to the courtroom gapped around him, Steve disappearing from his sight. He jerked in alarm, half turning with an aborted cry of dismay. Murdock was thrumming with excitement and energy as he guided him and several others away from the door, his tone warm and comforting as _‘Come on, James,_ ’ washed over his ears. But Bucky suddenly felt dismay, and low levels of panic bubbling up from deep inside the pit of his stomach.

“Wait-” He protested softly turning almost completely around, desperately trying to see back through the doorway. “Wait- wait no, St- Steve! No, Murdock! I've got to get to Steve- wait!

_Steve!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen down, one to go. I can't tell you enough how grateful I am for all of your support in this story. Every one of your comments are treasured, and I can't wait to hear your thoughts, and opinions on this, and the chapter, and stories to come.


	16. Compensation

Bucky was swept out of Steve's sight only minutes after the verdict, and suddenly, the overflowing elation and unadulterated delight washed out, leaving Steve stunned, and hollow. 

_He was gone._ Seconds after being granted freedom, Bucky had been snatched away from him to who knows where...and he was _gone_. Suddenly, any thoughts of patience, and politeness dropped to the very back of Steve’s mind and he began pushing between shoulders and turned backs, barely remember to murmur low, tense,  _ ‘excuse me’s’  _ under his breath as he shoved through. Steve darted, and pushed, and wedged, until suddenly, a knot of people spilled out into the wide, spacious hallway outside of the massive courtroom, and Steve found himself stumbling into free, open space. His pulse skyrocketed. 

“Bucky? Bucky! _shit_ -” He hissed under his breath _“BUCKY!”_ He could feel his stomach turning itself into knots, his chest hot, and heaving. Something in the back of his mind told him that this shouldn’t be a crisis- Maybe Bucky couldn’t just stroll out the front doors the second he was acquitted- there were things that needed to be set in order. This wasn’t a crisis.

_ But god it felt like one.  _

After four months Steve had thought that -if Bucky were freed- he’d _finally_ get to be with him….His fingers _burned_ to touch him, and his raw, battered heart ached to see his smile...to see it because of _him._ A part of him had thought he could have that right away...and now that it had been snatched right out from underneath him, he felt blindsided, and confused, and robbed. 

_ He should be with him. _

“Steve!”

Steve jerk around with a start, his eyes flashing back to the man who’d addressed him, and equal waves of relief, and disappointment washed through him. Not _Bucky,_ but _Foggy._ He blinked once, and then a small, shaky smile pulled at his mouth, gratefulness rushing through his chest. _“Foggy,”_ He greeted in a low tone. “God- _thank you_ \- you and Matt both, I-”

Foggy’s mouth curled up into a smile, his hands sliding into his pocket, his expression written with professional pride, yet at the same time...a genuine happiness that a good man was free. “Your guy deserves it.”

Steve nodded with a smile, his throat tightening just slightly. Yeah he did…if _anyone_ deserved any good thing in this world, it was Bucky…. Steve’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he suddenly stepped in closer to Foggy, his brow drawing into a knot. “Hey- Foggy? Where’d they take him? I- I saw Matt with him, but...they took him away, and...he _needs_ me, I-  _ I _ need  _ him _ ...” 

One corner of Foggy’s mouth turned up ruefully. “Chances are, Matt took him to settle out his compensation. The Board of Public Works is gonna arrange a package based on years wrongfully imprisoned. In Washington, you get ten to fifteen thousand dollars compensation per year, so that’s-” Foggy rolled one eye upward, his lips twitching as he calculated in his head. “-approximately fifty to seventy five thousand dollars. Plus, they’ll be discussing counseling options, and arrangements for temporary residence, so it could be a pretty long process.”

_ “Oh…” _

It was all Steve could manage. He’d imagined that this would be the end, but apparently the legal system had other plans. _Was it so wrong to want to hug the man he loved? Was it so wrong to want to kiss him, and hold him after being separated for four months?_

But he couldn’t even have that...not yet anyways...

“Hey Steve?” Foggy pressed, his usual easy, joking demeanor easing to something a little more earnest and he reached out, gripping his forearm. “Get outta here alright? You’ve been out of your freaking head for months worrying about the trial, and now, you don’t have to worry anymore. Matt’s got this under control, and when it’s all over...I’ll give you a call.”

Everything in Steve wanted to fight. He shouldn’t be going home- not when Bucky was stuck here. _Bucky_ was the one who should be going home...he should be going home with _him_...they should being spending the whole night in Steve’s bed, with Bucky curled in against his chest while Steve stroked his hair. He should be drinking in the sight of him and counting every lush, dark eyelash, while those beautiful gray blue eyes stared back at him so softly...so gently... _that’s_ where they should be. _Together_. Not with Steve at home. Not with Bucky here…

But Foggy was right regardless…

Steve nodded, his face suddenly awash with exhaustion. “Yeah…” He breathed reluctantly, his head dropping in a heavy nod. “Yeah- you’re right, he...he deserves everything Matt can get him…” Steve’s eyes lifted, slow, and bordering on anguished, “Just…let him know where I am, and...don’t forget to call…” He begged softly, and Foggy granted him a reassuring nod. 

“Promise,” He insisted. “ _Now scram_ , we’re gonna take care of everything.” Foggy said sincerely, gripping Steve’s forearm warmly. And with that, Foggy released him, and gave him a loose salute of farewell, before turning to stroll down the hall, leaving Steve to go join his partner at Bucky’s side. 

Steve watched him go, the little bit of warmth, and reassurance the conversation had brought him slowly going cold, seeping out of his chest to leave him listless, and hollow. Slowly, Steve forced himself to turn, and walk out of the huge courthouse and into the biting winter evening. It had been winter when he and Bucky had met...January...now, December was waning, but the empty pit in his chest felt colder than even the stinging wind on his exposed face as neck as he made his way to his car to go home...without Bucky... _again_ …

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The sky turned dark earlier and early this time of year. The last bit of light had trickled out of the horizon some time during the late afternoon, leaving Steve feeling displaced, and out of balance. He felt like it had been days since he’d left the courthouse. He felt like it had been an eternity since he’d seen the brief flash of Bucky’s smile after the verdict. 

He wondered if he felt the same. Were proceedings still dragging on? Where they still trying to interpret every time he’d been beaten, and starved, and left with nothing but his own thoughts, into numbers and dollar signs? Bucky deserved every scrap of compensation he could get, but...was it really what he needed  _ right now? _ Right now, Bucky needed to be showed all the gentleness and care that he’d been denied his whole life. Right now he needed to be shown he was _loved,_ not dragged through more legal proceedings. _Couldn’t it have waited for just a few days?_

Steve let out a sigh, scraping his half finished plate of dinner into the trash can, and laying his dishes in the sink. He didn’t really have it in him to eat right now, but it had been worth a try. All he wanted was for the phone to ring. All he wanted was to hear Foggy’s voice saying it was all over, that he could come see him. It had been _hours_...it was getting late, so...it had to be close...right? They couldn’t keep him forever.

Just as Steve had moved to turn the faucet on, a low knock rattled the door, and Steve caught his breath, momentarily startled. He blinked, letting out the lungful of air, hurriedly wiping off his hands and pitching the damp dishtowel over the back of one of the kitchen chairs as he walked briskly to the door. He reached out a hand, gripping the doorknob, and pulling it open to meet his visitor.

The air froze solid in his stunned lungs. 

_ Bucky _

Steve had almost given up hope of ever seeing this- of seeing Bucky standing on his doorstep, the headlights of Foggy’s car glowing off his overlong hair in a soft, white back lighting. For the first time, he was out of the scratchy, uncomfortable jumpsuit that had branded him as a murderer. Instead, Bucky was wearing new clothes- a pair of fitted jeans, and tight knit, burgundy sweater, that seemed to soften all his hard edges, and keep out the biting chill. He looked warm, and comfortable, and a distant part of Steve’s mind was glad to see him in clothing he had most likely chosen for himself; no more armor, uniforms, or jumpsuits. Bucky was finally allowed to decide what he wore, where he went, and what happened with his body and mind. He had been given control of himself, and Steve couldn’t have been more proud. 

But Bucky’s chin was tipped down, his expression written with anxiousness, as the fingers of his right hand played feverishly with the sleeve of his shirt. His head was low, but his hollow, sunken eyes were lifted to Steve’s- laced with hunger, and desperation. 

Steve had imagined the first time he’d get to see Bucky again countless times. He’d played it over in his mind how he’d sweep him up in a hug like he’d never let him go again; how he’d kiss him...how he’d final get to take care of him the way he deserved...But suddenly, all he could do was _stare._ Before, there had been rules, and roles, and boundaries. They had both been stuck with their lot in life, but had built their relationship around it none the less. But now... _everything_ had changed. Nothing was the same, and Steve suddenly felt the fear that had lurked in the background of his mind crawling up on him and sinking its claws into his mind. It was the fear that he’d held since realizing he’d fallen in love with his prisoner; the fear that once Bucky was free to do whatever he pleased.. _.he wouldn’t need Steve at all…_

“Bucky-” The whispered word finally slipped from Steve’s lips, his lashes fluttering as he blinked hard, his head catching up to his stunned, and fearful heart. And at the halting address, Bucky’s eyes flickered with something deep, and binding. He looked exactly the way Steve felt. _Lost. Fearful._ Bucky knew no better than he did what this would mean for their relationship.

“Hey Steve…” Bucky breathed, his voice low, and soft, his eyes flickering to his before dropping away again. His whole body was tense; laced with conflicted hope, and a deeply rooted, fear of rejection. His finger continued to play with the sleeve of his sweater, as though he were trying to channel every sensation of anxiety and fear into the simple twisting motion. This was all completely uncharted, and completely unknow. And Bucky was as scared as Steve was. 

“C...can I come in... _please_?”

Abruptly, Steve realized he was still standing in the doorway- that Bucky was still standing out in the cold, and he took a quick step backwards, his hand sliding from the smooth wood frame. _“Please,”_ He insisted shortly, and something deep inside him uncoiled as Bucky’s lips faintly twitched. The skeleton of their relationship had been ripped out. Neither of them knew what to do, or how to behave, but...Bucky had smiled...so Steve had done something right.

Bucky slipped in with his head still lowered, his body held close in on himself, like he was trying to unconsciously protect himself from harm. His eyes flickered around Steve small, warm home, his tongue dipping out to wet his lips as he stood just inside the door. The silence hung, still, and heavy between them, Bucky’s eyes eventually falling to his feet as Steve eased just a step back, suddenly finding himself twisting at his fingers. 

_ Nothing was the same.  _

_ Nothing at all.  _

The sound of Foggy’s car giving a chirping honk before driving off shattered the moment of stillness between them, and Bucky quickly dipped his head. He looked anxious, and uncertain, his eyes flickering beneath his half closed lids as words trembled on the verge of his lips. He looked the way he had in those first few weeks; planning out a single sentence for hours, only to have it stick sharply in his throat. But haltingly, he tried again, the soft, hesitant words whispering into the air between them.   _“I...I turned them down.”_

Steve blinked, his lips parting, but he bit the question back. The expression on Bucky’s face was all too familiar, and Steve knew there was more, so he caught back the words, and waited. Bucky kept his head low and his eyes downcast. He didn’t meet his gaze. “They offered me an apartment…” He started again, his posture closed, and submissive. “Somewhere to stay until they could find more permanent residence but...I turned them down.”  He repeated. “You had said-” Bucky abruptly cut off, his brow drawing as an edge of panic flickered around the corner of his eyes. “You...had said I could…”

Suddenly, the memory clicked into place, and Steve felt a rush of something like relief crash through him. _“I’d said you could live with me.”_ He supplied, almost breathless, his fear ebbing just a tiny bit. Maybe, with all the freedom in the world, Bucky _did_ actually want him. 

At the confirmation, Bucky’s expression was suddenly washed with a relief so intense it hurt Steve to see. He looked like he’d been afraid his mind had buckled under the weight of the nightmares in his life- like Bucky had _thought_ he’d remembered, but couldn’t comprehend why such a thing would be extended to him. Hearing it from Steve’s own mouth took that doubt away, and relieved the crushing fear that had been weighing on him since the verdict. 

He nodded shallowly, his eyes closed as he drew in a soft breath through slightly parted lips. “I remember…” Bucky murmured, “So when they said they’d arrange a place for me I...I told them I already knew where I could go…” 

And suddenly the edge of fear snapped back into Bucky’s eyes, his head lifting abruptly as the old, conditioning sparked deep inside him. “I can always call Nelson though-” He pressed quickly. “I- If you don’t want me- I can call him, and he’ll come and get me out of your way. I-I don’t have to stay- I can find somewhere else-”

_“No-”_ Steve blurted, suddenly taking a half step forward, Bucky’s eyes snapping up. He caught his breath, stopping just short of him, his eyes wide, his chest in a knot at the thought of _ever_ not wanting Bucky... _“No,”_ he pressed again, softer this time, realizing the sharp step forward may have spooked Bucky. He scared _so easily,_ and Steve never wanted that to happen because of him. His hands twitched slightly his sides, and Steve allowed a tiny, fractured smile to tugged wearily at the corners off his mouth. “Bucky...when I offered to let you stay with me, _I meant it._..I _want_ you here… _ Always _ …” Steve’s gaze went soft, his chest tightening, and filling with every drop of aching love he’d ever felt for this man. “You’re welcome to stay with me for as long as you want...”

And suddenly, something slipped seamlessly back into place. Suddenly, all the fear and guarded tension slipped from Bucky’s body and Steve felt warmth, and wellbeing rush through him, as he eased forward, and very carefully let himself press into the safety of Steve’s arms.

Steve let out a shuddering sigh of relief, his arms suddenly sliding around Bucky’s body, drawing him close as he nuzzled into his neck, their bodies flush together. Bucky pressed into the touch, his eyes squeezed closed, his shaking fingers came up to curl into the back of Steve’s shirt. He clung to him, _craning_ into the gentle embrace. He pressed his face into Steve’s neck as he felt the strength of the solid warm arms around him and Bucky suddenly felt completely, and irrevocably _safe._ He was safe here. He was with _Steve..._ he was _safe_ …

Steve slid a hand up, a raw, soft laugh shaking through his shoulders as he clung to Bucky, reaching up to grasp the back of his head, holding him close as he pressed a hot, shaky kiss to his temple, tremors suddenly taking his body. Steve was _trembling,_ and Bucky was weak kneed against him as they clung to each other like a lifeline- _Bucky was free-_ they were _together,_ and suddenly, all the love, and longing, and hurt and loneliness that Steve had felt since losing him welled up from the hollow pit in his chest, and spilled out in a broken, shaky sound that was caught between a laugh and a sob. _“God-”_ He gasped, his tone raw, and helpless. “God- _you’re here…_ ” He rasped, his voice cracking off as he pressed a kiss to the top of Bucky’s head, feeling the other man’s grip tighten on the back of his shirt. “ _You’re here.._..I missed you _so much- christ,_ Bucky-” He craned in, kissing his temple, and above his ear- anywhere he could reach, his hands stroking feverishly over his hair. “ _So much…_ missed you so much, Bucky…”

Bucky nuzzled up the side of Steve’s neck, his lashes wet as he kissed under his jaw, Steve’s hand coming around to to cradle his ashen face. He let Steve draw their faces level, letting out a broken little sound, as Steve kissed the corner of his eye- his cheeks- his brow- his lips. He nuzzled his nose against his cheek as Bucky pressed closer, his scarred soul crumbling with relief at the affection he’d been deprived of for so long…

_“Steve…”_ He whispered helplessly, craning into the gentle uncoordinated kisses that Steve pressed to his lips and cheeks with so little finesse. He didn’t care. He didn’t care that they weren’t deep, or smooth, skilled... _Steve was kissing him.._.he was _kissing_ him, and Bucky could have cried with relief. He kissed him back, just as desperate, just as uncoordinated, his eyes still closed. Bucky kissed him like he needed him to breath- like after all the time they’d been apart, another second would kill him. He’d _needed_ this…so bad. He needed _Steve._

Bucky’s mouth finally caught Steve’s _fully,_ and _deeply,_ Steve’s soft lower lip caught between Bucky’s chapped lips. He pressed desperately into the kiss, and it felt like the first time all over again, and for the first time since losing him, Bucky _really_ felt like there was something in his life worth salvaging after all. 

Bucky tipped his chin down, breaking the kiss with a soft, ragged sigh, his eyes closed, his forehead pressed to Steve’s. He nuzzled close, his breath coming hard. Slowly, Bucky managed to wet his lips, his plush lashes lifting to stare up at Steve, as realization began to slowly dawn inside Bucky’s mind. “I...I’m _free…”_ The words were low, and dazed, Bucky staring numbly up at Steve as they slipped from his lips; _a stunned fact._

After a heavy second, Steve’s mouth twitched, cracking into a smile as he let out a raw huff of laughter, pressing closer as he nuzzled into Bucky’s face. _“Yeah-“_ He managed, one hand sliding back into his hair. “Yeah Buck…You’re _free. You_ call the shots now... _no one else_... _no one’s gonna force you to do anything you don’t want to do ever again...”_

“I can stay with you….” Bucky whispered in return, and Steve’s chest flooded with warmth, his throat tightening as he dipped his head in a shaky nod.

“Yeah…” He murmured back, kissing him softly on the mouth, the surge of warmth in his chest turning to a rolling boil of aching love as Bucky craned hungrily into the kiss. “Yeah-” He breathed against his mouth, the words stilled with soft, tender kisses. “You can stay with me...You can do _whatever_ you want...” He whispered, kissing him again, his eyes closing as he pressed into the touch, still holding his beautiful Bucky close. “ _What do you want? What do you want to do?”_ The words were murmured, sweet, and low in Bucky’s ear; an open offer, an  _ ‘I will do anything to make you happy…’ _ and Bucky turned his face into Steve’s neck, nuzzling close.

He was _tired._ He was _exhausted,_ and sore, and baffled, and...and _free_...and he could do anything he wanted…

“I’m _so tired_ , Steve…” He confessed softly, his breath warm against his throat, his hands loosening and sliding down to rest limply on Steve’s hips. He could feel the fatigue pulling at every muscle in his body; dragging him down. He could feel it addling his mind. He was _so_ tired.. _.so...so tired…_

Steve’s expression softened, his eyes growing gentle with understanding, and he pet over Bucky’s hair, stroking through the oily strands. He needed a haircut...he needed a wash, and suddenly, Steve’s mouth turned into a tiny smile, his nose nuzzling softly against Bucky’s ear. “How about this…” He murmured, kissing the soft, vulnerable skin below the lobe. “How about I run a hot bath for you? We can wash your hair...take care of you, and then...if you want...if you’re _comfortable_ sleeping next me...we can go to my room, and sleep there... _and I’ll stay right beside you…_ ” He kissed his temple this time; soft, and warm, and reassuring. “I won’t leave you.. _.I’ll watch over you.._.and you can rest…” 

Against the side of Steve’s neck. Bucky’s mouth turned up into a tiny smile, his chest constricting, as he found his eyes burning with unshed tears. _God-_ how was he allowed to have this? How was he allowed to have someone so gentle, and understanding, and _perfect_ as Steve? It didn’t seem possible...but it _was,_ and it was _his_ now...Bucky dipped his head in a shaky nod, pressing in closer and nodding again, clinging to him desperately, and Steve made a soothing noise in the back of his throat. His hand slid down his back, stroking, and rubbing the tense muscles, murmuring sweet nothings against his ear. 

“Alright…” He murmured, “Come on…”

As Steve eased back, his hands slid down Bucky’s arms, fingers closing -warm, and reassuring- around his. He took his hands, holding them for a long moment before Steve leaned in to softly kiss his cheek one more time, and as he drew back, he turned and lead him deeper into the warm little home. Bucky drank in every detail of the house as Steve led him, walking compliantly until the stepped into a small, bathroom. It was neat, and clean, with tan floor tiles, and pale, mossy green walls with white tile spanning halfway up the walls. The bathtub was spacious, and rectangular; nothing like the stained, oval bowl with brass feet like Bucky vaguely remembered from his past. But as Steve turned the water on, it looked warm, and smelled sweet, and clean, and inviting. Steve straightened up from where he’d knelt by the tub, turning back to Bucky with a tiny smile on his lips.

“This okay?” He asked, his fingers brushing Bucky’s gently, and his former prisoner nodded, his expression soft, and shy.

“Yeah,” He murmured lowly, eyes dropping away, as Steve moved to step around behind him. “Yeah...this is good…” At the confirmation, Steve let his worry ease, and stepped over to the towel shelf behind Bucky, retrieving a soft, plush green towel before turning back, and feeling his heart skip sickly in his chest.  

On the back of his neck, right above the line of his collar, was a thick, bubbling burn, at least four inches across. It was red, and inflamed, the top layers of skin peeling back away from the blistering flesh, and Steve felt his stomach drop out from under him. God- _it looked bad_ \- it looked _painful,_ and it looked _intentional._

_ “Bucky…” _

Bucky’s heart stuttered, turning quickly to face Steve. He didn’t like that tone. It sounded low, and sick, and shocked. It was layered heavy with worry, and suspicion, and hurt, and Bucky’s eyes fluttered to Steve only to find them already fixed widely on him. 

“Bucky...what happened to your neck?…”

Suddenly, shame flashed, hot, through Bucky’s body, his eyes dropping down, his shoulders tightened as his body shifted away. He felt his stomach knot, his cheeks flushed with blood as Steve eased up behind him. “Pepper spray.” He murmured shortly, Blinking his eyes open, and watching from under his lashes; tense, and anxious as Steve moved close, his horrified eyes fixed on the burn, his fingers hovering delicately around the edge.

_“Christ…”_ He whispered raggedly, easing around Bucky’s side and gently easing his head down to further expose the back of his neck. “God- _Oh my god_ Wh- What was it, fucking _point blank?”_ He managed, something in him flaring with suffocating rage. Bucky just closed his eyes, trying to ease away from Steve’s strong, steady touch. 

But nonetheless, he wet his lips, his head dipping in a tiny nod, feeling a painful twinge as the movement shifted the skin around the site of the blistered chemical burn. He remembered feeling the nozzle press to the back of his neck- remembered feeling it pool across his skin like liquid. He remembered the way it had scaled, the way it had wrenched a raw scream from his throat…He hadn’t wanted Steve to see it…

_ “Who did this to you?” _

Steve words had come out heavy, and flat as he stood to Bucky’s right, his finger tips resting softly on his skin just below the burn. His tone was level, but his eye burnt with an ice cold fury that tugged at just a thread of old, conditioned fear inside Bucky. He wet his lips haltingly, his eyes dropping. “A guard.” He responded, his tone unconsciously mimicking Steve’s; flat, and weighted.

“One of your transport guards?” Steve asked, though it was mostly just a desperate grab for a little thread of false hope. The burn was healing- _scarring._ It was older than a week- before Bucky would have needed transport guards.

Steve’s stomach sank when Bucky shook his head, still not quite able to wrench his eyes back to him. “Regular guard…” He murmured. “The one who they sent to replace you.”

Almost as abruptly as it had flared, the anger that had twisted in Steve’s gut melted away to a sick grief that rested deep into the pit of his stomach, his throat tightening as he finger trailed gently down Bucky’s back. “Was he-“ Steve’s voice weakened, and he cut off abruptly, biting down hard on the insides of his lips as he dipped his head, reigning in his tone before it cracked. Letting out a low breath, Steve eased closer, reaching out to softly touch along Bucky’s jaw, and the other man blinked, glancing up with sharp, shame-touched eyes. “Buck…” Steve pulled in a slow breath, carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “Was he…violent _a lot?_ D- Did he hurt you?”

Bucky met Steve’s eyes, his stomach turning hot, and heavy as he saw the hurt etched in his clear blue gaze, and suddenly, he couldn’t hold the contact a moment longer. He dropped his eyes away, his expression tightening painfully as he slowly eased in, simply pressing his face into the side of Steve’s neck, and listened with an aching heart to the hitching, shuddering breath of pain Steve released at the non-verbal answer. His former guard’s hands slip up again, but this time, much slower, both arms wrapping loosely around his waist as he let Bucky press into the side of his neck. He buried his nose into his hair, breathing in the oily, slightly sour scent as he nuzzled close. For a long moment, Steve just held him, just let Bucky cling to him in silence, but the image of the burn was branded into his mind, and suddenly, Steve couldn’t stand the thought of not knowing what else had been done to him.

Steve felt his heart rate quicken. He _needed_ to know. He needed to know Bucky wasn’t hiding more of the bubbling, scarring burns under his clothing, but this was something he’d never asked of Bucky before. He’d never seen him any less than fully clothed, and -knowing his history of abuse- asking him to undress for him wasn’t a small request. Steve’s mouth felt suddenly very, very dry. 

His fingers trailed comfortingly down his back, rubbing softly over the tense muscle as he leaned in to press a feather light kiss to Bucky’s cheek. He needed this. He just needed to make sure he was okay. “Hey Buck…” He murmured softly, stroking his hair the whole while. “Can you take your shirt off for me? I wanna check you over…” Best to just start with the shirt. Baby steps...

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Bucky’s head turned back towards him, a tiny, conflicted knot drawn between his brows. His eyes scoured Steve, as though searching for his intention- trying to determine what he wanted from him. The last time Bucky had assumed Steve had wanted to initiate sexual contact things had gone... _poorly_. Steve had been upset. He’d rejected the touch. He hadn’t wanted it. And as surprising as it was to Bucky’s rigidly conditioned mind, he didn’t seem to want that _now_ either. He wasn’t displaying signs of arousal...but...maybe _concern_...a trace of anxiousness. Bucky turned towards him a little more fully. 

“Steve-” He started reluctantly, his flesh and blood fingertips grazing over the material of his sweater uncertainly. He was surprised to feel a poisonous tug of shame in his heart at the thought of undressing for Steve. “...It’s not pretty. I...my body- _it’s ugly_ …” Bucky could have been wrong but something like _agony_ flashed through Steve’s eyes. 

_“Buck-”_ He started gently, wanting to tell him right away- tell him that he could never see _any part of him_ as ugly...but, like convincing him that his sister wouldn’t reject him, or that Steve didn’t want sex from him, Bucky required logic, and strategic appeal before words of emotion could impact him. Steve needed to appease his tactical mind before he could reach his heart. “Buck, I need to make sure you’re not injured...that’s all I want, _I promise_. Please let me take care of you…”

Bucky’s eyes flickered, darting down and away before flickering back up to Steve. After a hesitant moment, Bucky dipped his head in a halting nod, and reached up over his back, taking two full handfuls of the sweater, and pulling it off over his head with a silent wince.

_The air was suddenly snatched from Steve’s lungs._

The first thing Steve’s worried heart saw was the bruising. Bucky’s ribs, and shoulder blades were mottled with heavy, dark bruises. Most of them were healing, turned sick yellows, and greens at the edges. Others were still black, or  vivid, almost unnatural purples and reds. Steve couldn’t help but imagine how he’d received them. The ribs and shoulder blades were easy targets to kick on a bound man...Bucky must have been laying on the ground, restrained, and helpless as he was hurt. Patches of skin on his ribs had been rubbed raw by the friction of his jumpsuit under the assault of the kicks, leaving behind huge patches of shallow scabbing. But at the very least there were no more of the blistered chemical burns like on his neck. 

The second thing Steve’s mind latched onto was _his figure_...Bucky’s body was a _masterpiece_ of finely honed sinew, and muscle. The base of his neck spread in sharply define muscle across the tops of his shoulders, and then down the sultry curve of his spine, which dipped so beautifully at the base. Firm cords, speaking of strength even Steve had yet to see, ran down his right arm, his biceps solid; the muscles following across the beautifully defined swell of his pecs, his dark tan nipples drawn tight from the cool air. The core of his abdomen was defined, and ridged, the distinct V of his adonis belt disappearing into the waist band of his jeans a few inches below his navel. He was _stunning..._

_ And then there were the scars… _

Bucky slowly turned, unconsciously trying to hide himself as Steve eased forward. His head bowed, and his eyes turned away. Bucky couldn’t help himself...He wanted to do as Steve asked, and...and he wanted him to take care of him, he _really did.._.but Bucky couldn’t suppress the flinch as his former guard’s fingers touched the seam of his left arm and his body…

The scars were thick- _raised,_ and _ridged._ They were old, and dark, reddish brown against Bucky’s pale flesh...The scarring circled the entire junction, from the top of his collarbone, to below his left pectoral, and around the back side. There were scars from incisions where the mechanics of the arm had been worked deep into the pectoral muscles; most likely to be attached to his skeletal structure. There were scars that were more ragged as well, like deep _tears_ in the flesh from preliminary attachments that had not gone as planned...it made Steve sick to imagine…

Slowly, his fingers trailed away from the junction of flesh and metal, tracing slowly across his back. There too were thick ridges of scarring, but they looked more like lashes- crisscrossing Bucky’s back like some kind of sadistic chessboard. They were layered one on top of the other, like he’d been lashed multiples times so new scars layered over over, layered over _older…_ Steve’s fingers softly found two puckered scars left behind from bullet wounds, one right next to the other on his ribs. There was a third up by his right shoulder, and a fourth frighteningly close to his left lung. A flat narrow scar on his right bicep suggested he’d been grazed there too.

The rest registered to Steve’s burning eyes in a blur- knife slashes- puncture wounds- an ugly scar from some kinds of terrifyingly deep _gash_ on his left side...he was _riddled_ with scars...there was scarcely a spare few inches of flesh that hadn’t been somehow affected. And after eighty years of being used as a walking weapon, Steve couldn’t even bring his grieved heart to be surprised. 

“Steve…” Bucky’s tone was raw, and tight, his shoulders hunching as Steve’s fingers brushed so gently over his disfigured body. He’d been told he was ugly.  _ ‘Fucking ripped up piece of meat,’’Got a new scar there, Soldier?’’Just open your mouth, if I wanted to be disgusted I would have told you to take the uniform off.’ _ He didn’t want Steve to see that...he didn’t want him to be disgusted...he wanted him to stop looking…

Ever so softly Steve leaned in and pressed his lips to the back of Bucky’s shoulder. The man’s breath hitched in his chest, and Steve let out a breath, tenderly kissing the scarring at the joint of the metal arm. Bucky’s mouth dropped open, lips twitching with strangled, unspoken words, as his eyes fixed straight ahead. 

“S... _Steve?”_

Steve kissed along the seam again, a little further up this time- the very top of Bucky’s shoulder, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as his hands came to rest on his hips. “ _You’re body’s not ugly, Buck…”_ He murmured against his skin, kissing a puckered bullet graze on the side of his neck. “It’s a _survivor’s_ body…” Fingertips ghosted over the gash scar on his left side, Steve gently kissing one of the incision scars across the top of his collar bone. “All these scars...it just shows you’re strong...that you fought, and got out alive...it’s beautiful... _You’re beautiful…”_

Bucky realized dimly that he wasn’t breathing... _he should report that,_ alert someone so he could receive medical attention, but...suddenly it didn’t seem to matter so much. Steve’s hands were warm, and soft on his bruised, scarred body. His lips touched tenderly over the deep, ugly blemishes on his shoulders and neck, but- _he didn’t think they were ugly..._ He didn’t look at them as see failure like Bucky did...he saw _strength,_ and Bucky couldn’t comprehend it. He felt his warm, soft lips trace mark after mark, and his stomach tightened as they touched just below the bubbling scar on the back of his neck.

“Steve?” Bucky’s hand lifted slowly, moving to brush over the back of his neck, his brow twisted into a tiny frown. Something had gone tight inside his chest. Something felt sick, and knotted, and Bucky let out a shallow, raw breath. “Why’d he do this to me? I did what I was told... _there was no reason…_ ” His words were soft, and helpless, and Steve felt his heart break.

_God- So much_ had been done to this man that it had stopped making sense. More and more hurt had been piled onto him _again,_ and _again_ with no explanation until he’d been stripped down to nothing. He just wanted to know why...Why had all this happened when all he’d tried to do was survive? Why was the world so eager to hurt him?

Steve let out a pained breath, his eyes fluttering closed, chest tight with grief. “Because, Buck…” He started softly. “People like that...they hear stories, and they think that you’re dangerous. They expect you to be aggressive, and dominant…And when you’re not...it makes them feel more powerful than the person they _perceived_ you to be…Suddenly a man like that sees himself as _stronger_ than the Winter Soldier...it gives him a feeling of power…” Steve’s eyes softened, hurt flashing through his gaze. “ _And people do awful things with power…”_

Bucky dropped his eyes away, staring down at the cool tiles below his feet, letting Steve lean in once more to softly kiss the side of his neck. His gaze flickered back, just for a moment, words pressing suddenly at his lips, and he took in a short breath. _“I almost killed him, Steve…”_ Bucky confessed, not surprised when Steve’s touch stilled. He lowered his gaze again, flesh fingers tracing metal in front of him. “ _A couple_ times times actually...I could see it in my head- killing him for hurting me. For putting his hands on me. I’d think through every movement, I’d...I’d _imagine_ him _dying..._ imagine watching it while I had my knee on his throat.” His mouth tightened, eyes flat. “But I didn’t…” The words were spoken almost with regret, but Steve heard a tiny thread of pride running through his tone too.  _ He’d _ done that.  _ He’d _ decided not to kill him. No one else. The coldness in Bucky’s eyes eased, and he shifted slowly, turning under Steve’s touch to face him. He reached up, soft, and slow, his metal fingers tracing lightly over Steve’s jaw. “I knew I’d never see you again if I did…” 

Steve met his eyes, his beautiful, shattered blue-gray eyes, and reached up, gently drawing Bucky’s hand in close, and pressing a soft kiss against the metal fingertips. He kissed his palm, and wrist, like Bucky had so often done to him as they’d held hands through the slot in the door. He drew him in, soft, and slow, his opposite hand coming up to his jaw as he guided him into a tender kiss. He had no words for the love, and respect that flooded his chest. _His Bucky_ \- who’d been trained, and re enforced to kill his whole life, had _consciously_ decided to spare even someone who tormented him. He’d rejected the killer he’d been told he was. He endured for what he _knew_ he wanted- _to get back to Steve_ \- to someone who treated him with kindness, and care, and Steve couldn’t have respected him more… He was so strong... _so strong._

Steve kissed him slowly for a long time, letting Bucky go weak under the softness of the kiss, before he drew back, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “We’re gonna make this right…” He breathed gently, his eyes almost closed, though he still stared at him through the sweep of his long, dark gold lashes. “We can call Matt and Foggy...make sure he doesn't get away with hurting you...make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else...but let me take care of  _ you _ now…” Steve murmured, his hands brushing softly over his hair. “You deserve that Bucky.. _.okay?_ Will you let me take care of you?”

Bucky’s eyes flickered down, before lifting back to Steve his head dipping in a nod, and Steve’s mouth softened into a tiny smile. “Good…” He murmured, kissing Bucky’s forehead tenderly before he eased back, stepping away from Bucky to turn off the stream of warm water to the tub. “Here…” Steve said softly, glancing back over his shoulder at him. “Why don’t you get in. I think I have some epsom salt in the cabinet that might help a little with the bruising.”

Bucky nodded, a tiny flash of gratefulness flickering across his expression, and Steve turned away from him. As Bucky finished undressing, Steve picked slowly through the cabinet, listening to the material of his jeans and boxers crumple to the floor, and the soft, tentative dip of one foot into the water. A smile tugged at Steve’s mouth as a low, unintentional moan that slipped Bucky’s lips. The only way he’d been able to clean himself in years was scrubbing his head and body in a sink that gushed only cold water. The warmth must feel like heaven. Steve kept his back turned, taking his time measuring out the epsom salt until he heard Bucky sink all the way into the water, another one of those soft sighs escaping his lips at the luxury of the warmth.

Steve turned, padding up to the bathtub on socked feet, and dropping easily to one knee, his heart stuttering in his chest. 

Bucky sat in the tub, his knees loosely bent, his mouth slack as he stared at the water. His eyes were soft, and damp, and baffled, like he couldn’t believe how good it felt...like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have this. His ran his fingers through the water, feeling the warmth tingling up his hand and he allowed himself to sink a little deeper, the base of his spine sliding along the bottom of the tub as he let himself sink. Smiling softly, Steve poured in the epsom salts, minding his task as Bucky let out another low moan, his eyes fluttering closed. He barely reacted when Steve pushed up one sleeve, and dipped his hand in to stir the water. He just leaned back, his pale throat beautifully exposed, his hair trailing in the water. He wet his lips as Steve coaxed the thick chunks of medicinal salts to dissolve, the frothing water swirling around him. 

“Hey…” Steve breathed, sliding a hand under the back of Bucky’s head, before he could sink any deeper, assisting the motion as Bucky’s eyes fluttered open, glinting with confusion. Steve’s mouth tightened slightly. “Sit back up a bit, Buck, I wanna get a little something on that burn.”

After a second, Bucky nodded, trustingly turning his back to Steve in the water, his body vulnerable, and exposed. He never would have done that with his other guard. He never would have done that for _anyone_ else, but he would trust Steve with anything… _he wouldn’t hurt him._

Moving to the cabinet, Steve withdrew a small first aid kit before easing up behind him, gently, touching around the site of the injury. He softly dabbed over it with a cool, strongly minty smelling salve, and Steve murmured low, soft praise as he laid a pad of gauze over the treated area, laying lines of medical tape over it to hold the pad in place. He also drew out a plastic, ziplock back, using the little scissors in the kit to cut out a square larger than the gauze pad. He worked efficiently, taping the plastic on over the gauze. It wouldn’t take being submerged, but it would keep some amount of the water out at the very least. Bucky just wouldn’t be able to dunk above his shoulder blades without disrupting it, and Steve’s gaze drifted to Bucky’s oily hair. 

“Hey...We should keep that bandage dry, so...would you mind if I washed your hair?” Steve asked, his tone, soft, and open, and Bucky’s eyes flickered over to him. His expression was still; his gaze uncertain. Bucky didn’t remember anyone ever washing his hair before, but the more he let the notion sink in, the mores his uncertainty ebbed. It sounded... _nice_. He could imagine the sweet smell of the shampoo- feel the soothing warmth of the water being poured over the crown of his head. The thought of Steve’s strong fingers massaging over his scalp made his stomach flush with heat, and haltingly, Bucky nodded. 

After the soft exchange, they fell into silence. Bucky soak in the warmth, and the simple. beautiful luxury of the bath. Steve leaned back, retrieving a tall plastic cup from the sink that he usually used for rising his razors, and filled it with warm water from the tap. He softly poured water over his scalp, wetting the over long hair. Steve’s movements were slow, and gentle as he thoroughly wet his hair. His hands were kind as he guided his head forward, and massaged a fresh, woody scented shampoo into his hair. It smelled like fresh air, and trees, and rain, and Steve worked it all though every strand, and right up against his scalp until the lingering, sour scent was only a bad memory. 

They didn’t speak as Steve rinsed his hair, or as he worked a light, coconut scented conditioner between the strands. Bucky received the soap, and rag that Steve offered him, and washed his body as Steve gently rinsed his hair again. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this good. He felt _warm-_ but nothing like the stifling, sour warmth that had plagued his cell. It was a _sweet_ warmth- an _unguarded_ warmth. The smell of the shampoo, soap and conditioner was amazing, and Bucky let himself breathe it in and relax. There was no need for vigilance. He was safe here. 

Bucky stayed in the bath for almost an hour, and true to his word, Steve stayed right by his side. He rubbed his back, and shoulder, coaxing out the tension, and touching him so softly that Bucky’s throat tightened with relief. He could hardly believe he was allowed to be this comfortable- this safe- this _happy._ He- He was _happy_...and it might have been the first time in eighty years. 

After an hour, the water had turned a chilly luke-warm, and Steve, slipped out, leaving Bucky to dry off, and change in privacy. He wanted Bucky to know that that was always his right- he was _always_ allowed his privacy, even while living in Steve’s home. He was always allowed time and space to himself, and he was always allowed to decide how much or little Steve saw, or touched of him. So he stepped across the hall, and into his own room, sinking back on the edge of his bed, and letting out a long, slow breath.

It was over. Bucky was here- was _safe_...and it was finally over. 

Steve’s eyes flickered up as the door to his bedroom eased open, Bucky hovering by the doorway with downturned eyes. The uncertainty was back, his fingers playing over the wood grain of the doorframe, his socked feet shifting on the carpet, and Steve’s mouth tugged into a reassuring smile. “ _Hey_ …” he barely murmured, dipping his head into an encouraging nod, and Bucky slipped from the doorway, his head still low- body held close as he softly slipped closer. He looked soft, and clean, and tired. His eyes were touched with uncertainty, but Steve remembered clearly what Bucky wanted. He wanted to rest, and he wanted it _here-_ by Steve’s side. He wanted him to watch over him. 

Without another word, Steve pulled down the blanket, shifting on the bed to tuck his legs under the comforter, keeping the end lifted, and giving Bucky an encouraging nod. “Come on,” He prompted with a smile, his heart suddenly fluttering in his chest as Bucky cautiously approached the edge of the bed. His fingers brushed the sheets, eyes drinking in the plush pillows, and the thick, batted blanket. His thighs pressed against the mattress, and after a second longer, Bucky carefully eased down. 

Steve leaned in, laying the blanket over Bucky’s body as he haltingly crawled into bed next to him, still half braced on his elbows- body still clinging to residual tension. But Steve just shuffled in, his head flat on the pillow, on hand shoved underneath. Bucky watched him for a long moment, studying his position, how there was so little tension in his body, and gradually Bucky sank down as well. 

Even so gently, the two began to move together- like comets drawn in by each other's gravity. Their foreheads eased close enough to touch, Steve’s hand finding it’s way softly to Bucky’s jaw. And when their feet brushed under the covers, Steve eased closer to tangle their legs- _gently,_ and _intimately._ As Bucky relaxed, Steve felt him pressing in closer as well. His left hand slid up Steve’s ribs, feeling the faint echo of his heartbeat under the perfectly calibrated sensors. He nuzzled close, their lips almost brushing- breath mingling together between them.

And for a moment- for the very _first_ moment in Bucky’s entire life.. _.it was perfect._

It had been only a few days shy of a year...an _entire year_ since Steve had approached the heavy steel door armed with only the rumors of the monster that was locked behind it. _An entire year_ since he’d realized just how horribly, _horribly_ wrong those rumors were. Steve let his eyelids crack open, his gaze caressing the lines of Bucky’s cheekbones, and jaw, drinking in the pale expanse of his gorgeous throat. An entire years...and Steve was more in love with him than ever….

He was _beautiful_...His Bucky was so, _so_ beautiful...He’d survived horrors that would have killed anyone else. He’d been subjected to so much, and yet somehow still carried so much softness, and so much humanity inside him. _..He was amazing._..He was _amazing_ ….and Steve got to have him, just like this. Somehow, Steve got to hold Bucky in his arms, after all this, and show him just how deeply he was loved. 

The only light in the room was the pale lamp on the nightstand. It shone softly over the back of Steve’s head, highlighting Bucky’s gorgeous cheekbones; scattering light through his soft lashes. He looked so _peaceful_...Steve tipped his chin forward, and tenderly closed the millimeters between their lips, his eyes fluttering closed as he kissed him, soft, and sweet, his hand cupping under his jaw. He let himself linger for just a moment, even with Bucky’s breath still level against his skin- even with his mouth still loose, and soft under his. Steve indulged in kissing Bucky for just a moment longer before he tipped his chin down again softly breaking the contact as his adoring eyes caressed his sleeping face. 

_ “I love you…” _

The three, weighted words slipped helplessly from Steve’s lips, his eyes falling closed as something crushing, and painful lifted from his chest, and cool, sweet relief washed through him. He wet his lips with a tiny touch of his tongue, his nose brushing Bucky’s softly as he nuzzled closer. _“I love you…”_ He murmured again, just a breath- just a whisper. “So much....you have no idea...I love you so, _so_ much, Bucky...”

As he breathed the gentle confession against Bucky’s lips, Steve felt a flutter, his heart lurching as Bucky’s lashes lifted slowly, stunned eyes locking on Steve. Steve’s breath hitched in his chest, his lungs freezing for a heavy second as Bucky’s eyes turned sharp, and clear, and painfully alert. He blinked once- twice- and the quite, cleansing moment suddenly turned Steve’s stomach into a knot as anxiousness washed across Bucky’s face. 

Like Steve, Bucky found himself suddenly breathless. His chest had stilled, his eyes fixed on Steve as he was yanked back from the edge of sleep, shock flooding his veins with ice. Steve had never said that before... _no one_ had. _No one_ in Bucky’s memory had ever- _ever_ said they loved him, and suddenly, Bucky had no idea how to response. His muscles began to tighten again, his chest slowly expanding as he drew a deep breath in, neurons firing in his mind as acute panic washed through him. 

_ He didn’t know how to handle this- _

There was _so little_ of him left- _so little_ that hadn’t been damaged or destroyed, and his instincts towards love had not been untouched. Love had been treated as a defect. A _weakness._ Something warranting punishment. Love was something he would be hurt for expressing... _love was something that had been burnt out of Bucky for eighty years._

Steve saw the panic, and his heart twisted sharply with pain. The tender confession that had lifted the weight from his chest had opened a floodgate of anxiousness, and panic, and fear in the man he loved, because... _because of what Steve had known all along._ Bucky had as much of a grasp on love as he did on consent;  _ theoretical _ , and only ever used to hurt. He didn’t know _how_ to love Steve back, and he didn’t know how to verbalize it. 

Steve could see it in his eyes...he could see him trying to find the words he thought _Steve_ wanted to hear.  _ ‘I love you too,’ ‘I love you, Steve.’  _ He could see him trying to make his lips form them, and his chest suddenly blossomed with pain. 

“Bucky-” He pressed suddenly, his tone low, and desperate, and Bucky’s anxious gaze snapped up, half-parted lips frozen, eyes dancing with confusion, and fear. Carefully, Steve slid his hand back up to Bucky’s jaw, easing him closer, his eyes locking on his; laced with pain, and aching love. _“It’s okay…”_ He murmured softly, giving him a gentle nuzzle, the affection making the uncertain fear inside Bucky crack. “ _It’s okay_ , Buck...you don’t have to say anything. _You don’t have to say it...I promise,_ I’m not mad…” Steve breathed, and as Bucky let out a shaking breath, Steve caught his mouth in a soft, short kiss. “I’m not. _..I promise…”_

He blinked slowly, watching as Bucky’s eyes flickered, and then dropped his expression flashing with guilt, his fingers twitching helplessly on Steve’s ribs. “Steve…” He tried haltingly, blinking hard, a little shiver running up through him. _Why couldn’t he say it?_ He felt _something_ \- he- he trusted Steve. He needed him, he...he  _ adored _ him.. _.why wasn’t it love?  _ Why couldn’t he look Steve in the eyes and tell him he was in love with him? _“I’m sorry-”_ He breathed, his voice cracking. “Steve- _I’m sorry-”_

Instantly, Steve leaned forward, drawing Bucky close against him and nuzzling into his neck, letting out a soft sounds from deep in his chest. “No...no Bucky, it’s alright…” He murmured, squeezing his eyes closed against the love, and pain, and conflict inside him. “It’s alright... _I understand._..it’s okay...it’s okay.. _.Doesn't change a thing._..look-” He prompted softly, easing back just enough to take Bucky’s chin, just enough to meet his agonized stare. “Look at me... _I love you_ , and you don’t, but...knowing that?... _it doesn't change anything._..It’s still _alright._ _We’re_ still alright…” 

Slowly, the anxiety in Bucky’s eyes shifted to confusion, something in him _begging_ Steve to answer the question he couldn’t; begging him to tell him why he wasn’t in love with him when everything he knew to be true told him he _should be_. He _should_ love Steve. He _should_ be in love with him...Steve should also be angry that he wasn’t, but.. _.he wasn’t.._.Steve wasn’t angry, and Bucky wasn’t in love. And none of it was fair, but Steve just kept brushing his cheeks, and kissing him softly all the same. 

“Steve?” Bucky murmured softly, exhaustion washing through him, as he stared up at him, drinking in every line of his face in the dim lighting. Steve hummed softly, tipping down Bucky’s face and tenderly kissing the corner of his eye, and Bucky’s hand slide up, catching Steve’s jaw. He held him still there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his skin, and his lips, feeling his breath through his lashes. “I _want_ to…” He murmured- soft, and helpless. “I... _want_ to love you.. _.I don’t know what’s wrong with me…”_

Steve let out a low sound, pressing closer, as he nestled his head back onto the pillow, his lips pressing to Bucky’s forehead as he drew him in warmly against his chest. _“Nothing…”_ He murmured lowly, his heart rate settling as he accepted his lot. “There’s _nothing_ wrong with you...you’ve been through _so much,_ Buck. _..so much_ , and you’ve worked so  _ so _ hard just to let me in...just to trust me...It takes a lot of work to love someone, and you’ve got it harder than anyone.. _.it’s okay_ ….” Steve tenderly kissed Bucky’s sweet, dark hair, breathing him in as his eyes fell closed. “ _There’s nothing wrong with you._..I’ll always take you just how you are... _you never have to change for me_ …I’m still gonna help you, and treat you the way you deserve...I’m still gonna love you...is that okay?” 

Bucky blinked, his hands drawn up against his chest, his forehead resting against Steve’s collar. He hadn’t expected the question, and his eyes flickered up to Steve, even as he pressed another loving kiss to his forehead, and slowly, Bucky nodded.

_ He could do this. _

He could have this amazing, _beautiful_ thing...He could share a life with Steve- _a home..._ and he could let him love him. He could be himself, shattered, and damaged as he was, and trust Steve to take him regardless. _He could do this_. He could let Steve love him, and someday, try and learn how to love him in return. 

At Bucky’s tiny nod, Steve let out a low breath, and sunk into him, Bucky nestling deeply in his strong, safe arms. 

He’d never felt like this before...he’d never felt so _protected._ So _sure._ Because Steve would take him the way he was. He got to have him in his bed, in soft, clean clothing, and under warm blankets. He got to have him smelling like soap, and wood, and rain. He got to have him when he was happy, and trusting, with his forehead touching his and his breath warm on his lips. Steve was privileged with Bucky’s careful smiles, and the little bit of hope that he still nursed so very close to his chest.

But Steve would also have him just the way he was when that _wasn’t_  easy. Steve got to have him just the way he was. He got to have his hesitance, caution, and fear. He got to have him, even still hurt, and very, _very_ damaged. Steve got to have his twisted perception of reality and consent, and he got to have his flashbacks, and panic attacks, and nightmares. And he was privileged with the knowledge that Bucky trusted him to help him limp through them...he _trusted_ him to hold him at his most vulnerable; when he was _sobbing,_ and _shaking,_ breaking apart. 

Things... _weren’t_ perfect. _Not at all_. Bucky was a _mess._ He was broken, and confused, and lost. His body and mind were so terribly, _terribly_ scarred and he had no idea if he could ever function beyond this tiny scrap of normalcy he had with Steve. He had no idea if he could ever learn how to love him. 

Steve had lost the career that he’d slaved over for the better part of his life, and his money would only last them so long. He was holding Bucky together as best he could while hold together his own fractured heart as it bled with a love that couldn’t be returned. 

The start of their life together was uncertain. It was messy, and damaged, and raw, but it was  _ real _ . It was the _most_ real thing either of them had even had the privilege to feel. It was brutal, and vicious, and unfair, and it was  _ real _ ...Because Steve loved Bucky, and Bucky would do _anything_ for Steve...and both of them would protect each other from the harshness of the world until the day their last, strangled breath was ripped from their lungs. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guys, we've made it to the end. Lucky for you though, it's only the end of part one. The first chapter of Institution of Love is just a click away, so let me know what you thought, what your opinions, impressions, and favorite parts were, and then head on and enjoy! I can't wait to share the experience of part two with you all!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys like what you see here! 
> 
> Just as a quick note for anyone who's wondering. The voices in Bucky’s head are auditory hallucinations, which are frequently a side-effect of being left too long in solitary confinement. His manifest much like the voices of his former handlers. 
> 
> Comments, and suggestions of what you’d like to see from this fic are always _hugely_ valued and appreciated. I’d love to hear from all of you. See you for the next chapter!


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